“Mr. McGowan is a very accomplished gentleman,” Uncle Peter decided; “but handicapped by a most depressing wife, most depressing.  The Blue Hills, eh! the Blue Hills!  Now, I wonder——­”

Then he began to whistle softly and went into the dining-room.

Monday morning, bright and early, I met Bunch, and we buried the hatchet.

“I hope my beloved relatives didn’t disgrace me while sojourning in your midst,” he chuckled.

“Not at all,” I answered airily.  “Why, Uncle Cornelius was the hit of the season with Uncle Peter, though, of course, Aunt Flora didn’t make good with that ‘You betcher sweet!’ monologue of hers.  How could she?  Even at that, she stands better with me than some conversational queens I know who get so busy with the gab they make me dizzy.”

About noon Bunch and I ducked for New Rochelle to do a bit of advance work for our show.

Nobody knew us in the town, so we posed as Cameron & Connolly, owners of the Great Hall of Illusions, and Managers of the World Wonder and Magic King, Signor Beppo Petroskinski, and Ma’moselle Dodo, the Oriental Queen of Mystery.

Pretty hot line of goods, eh?

We handed out the salve thing to all the paper lads and they were for us good and plenty.

After our publicity department had been in operation for about four hours we began to see the neighbors sit up and notice us, and we figured on about a $1,000 opening.

“The show will cost us about $80 a day,” Bunch financed, with a strangle hold on a big green lead pencil.  “Let’s see! expenses say $500 a week at the outside.  Now, let’s strike a low average and say we play to $800 a night; that’s $4,800 a week, and two matinees at, say $200, that’s $5,000 on the week, eh, John!  That gives us a clean profit of $1,500 apiece for the three of us—­oh, aces!”

“It looks good to me.  Bunch,” I agreed, and then we went out and ordered some more three-sheets and a flock of snipe.

We spent the whole day in New Rochelle, and I reached home tired, but enthusiastic.

“John,” said Clara J. when we were alone after dinner, “Uncle Peter says if you will let him have that $5,000 by Thursday or Friday he will invest it where the returns will be enormous!”

“Sure,” I answered, and I could feel my ears getting pale; “I’ll hand it over to him Thursday or Friday—­if you think it’s best not to invest it in that new house.”

“Oh!  I really do!” she hurried back.  “You know Uncle Peter is so careful and so clever with his investments.  He told me in strictest confidence only this morning that he would more than double your money in six months.  Isn’t that perfectly splendid!”

“Is that the wonderful secret you threatened me with?” I asked mournfully.

“Oh no!” she replied; “I can’t tell you that till Wednesday evening—­I promised not to.”

I guess I didn’t sleep very well that night, for I had dreams of Uncle Peter chasing me with a club all over a theatre and making me hop every seat in the orchestra, while Ma’moiselle Dodo sat perched on the balcony rail and screamed, “You betcher sweet!”