“And for the last time, sir.”

“I know of only one good reason for such a statement.”

“It’s it, sir!”

Mr. Blankinship folded his paper carefully.  His eyes were red, for he had been up late the night before.

“I’d go, too,” he said simply, “if it wasn’t for the mother.”

The firm of John St. John & Brothers sat in its office.  The head of the firm was gorgeous in a new uniform; he had hurried up from New York (where he had been paying vigorous court to Ellen Manners, whom he had made up his mind to marry) in order, as oldest, biggest, and strongest, to enlist for the family in one of the home regiments.  There lingered on his lips the thrill of a kiss half stolen, half yielded, while in his pockets were a number of telegrams since received, and the usually grave and stern young man was jocular and bantering.  The two younger members of the firm were correspondingly savage.

“For God’s sake, clear out of here,” said Hamilton.  “Your shingle’s down.  Bul and I are running this office now.”

“Well, it’s the chance of your lives, boys,” said the frisky colonel.  “I’ll have forgotten the law by the time I come back.”

“Hope you may choke, John,” said Hannibal, sweetly.

“Don’t allow smoking in here, do you, boys?” He got no answer.  It was a hard-and-fast rule which he himself had instituted.

“Well, here goes.”  He lighted a huge cigar and puffed it insolently about the office.  He surveyed himself in the cracked mirror.

“Cursed if a uniform isn’t becoming to a man!” he said.

“Chicken!” said Hamilton.

“Puppy!” said Hannibal.

“Titmouse!” said Hamilton.

“Ant!” said Hannibal.

John’s grin widened.

“Boys,” he said, “you’ve got one swell looker in the family, anyway, and you ought to be glad of that.”

The boys exchanged glances.

Hannibal had upon his desk a pen-wiper which consisted of a small sponge heavy with the ink of wiped pens.  Hamilton had beneath his desk an odd rubber boot which served him as a scrap-basket.  These ornamental missiles took John St. John in the back of the head at about the same moment, the weight and impetus of the boot knocking the cigar clean out of his mouth, so that it dashed itself against the mirror.

The gallant colonel turned, still grinning.  “Which threw the boot?” said he.

“I did,” said Hamilton.

“Then you get the first licking.”

Hamilton met his brother’s hostile if grinning advance with the hardest blow that he could strike him over the left eye.  Then they clenched, and Hannibal joined the fray.  The three brothers, roaring with laughter, proceeded to inflict as much damage to each other and the office as they jointly could.  Over and under they squirmed and contorted, hitting, tripping, falling and rising.  Desks went over, lawbooks strewed the floor, ink ran, and finally the bust of George Washington, which had stood over the inner door since the foundation of the firm, came down with a crash.