The next day they were found across the street with Jerry Andrews’ pigeons, as unconcerned as you please.  Philip parted with his Lost Heir game—­about the only thing he had left—­to get Jerry to help him to catch them when they were roosting.  He shut them up for a few days and worked harder than ever, if that were possible, to try to please them.

The Pigeon Book would have been neglected only for his mother, who said it was only right to put in the bad as well as the good.  That was the way with all stories.  Philip made this entry: 

They went away and staid and had to be brot back by force I guess they were lonesome.  I don’t know why they don’t like me—­I like them!

When his mother read that she said, “Poor little fellow,” and made pancakes for tea.

In a few days he let them out again, and watched them with a pale face.

They did not hesitate a minute, but flew straight away down the street to the place they had been before, to the place where the people often made pies of pigeons and were not ashamed to tell it!

Philip followed them silently, not having the heart to call.

“Say, Phil,” the boy of the pigeon loft called—­he was a stout boy who made money out of everything—­“I guess they ain’t goin’ to stay with you.  You might as well sell out to me.  I’ll give you ten cents for the pair.  I’m goin’ to sell a bunch to the hotel on Saturday.”

An insane desire to fight him took hold of Philip.  He turned away without speaking.

At school that day he approached the pigeon boy and made the proposition that filled the boy with astonishment:  “I’ll give them to you, Jerry,” he said, hurriedly, “if you promise not to kill them.  It’s all right!  I guess I won’t bother with pigeons—­I think I’ll get a dog —­or something,” he ended lamely.

Jerry was surprised, but being a business man he closed the deal on the spot.  When Philip went home he put his pigeon book away.

There was a final entry, slightly smeared and very badly written: 

They are ungrateful broots!

YOU NEVER CAN TELL

(Reprinted by permission of Saturday Night, Toronto.)

It was at exactly half-past three in the afternoon of a hot June day that Mrs. Theodore Banks became smitten with the idea.  Mrs. Banks often said afterwards she did not know how she came to be thinking about the Convention of the Arts and Crafts at all, although she is the Secretary.  The idea was so compelling that Mrs. Banks rushed down town to tell Mr. Banks—­she felt she could not depend on the telephone.

“Ted,” she cried, when she opened the door of the office, “I have an idea!”

Theodore raised his eyelids.

Mrs. Banks was flushed and excited and looked well.  Mrs. Banks was a handsome woman any time, and to-day her vivacity was quite genuine.