another, 'It's true, it's true, as we feared. There is no Santa Claus, and useful life is less than actual life.' Here is the Collector of Internal Revenue, who only a little while ago was writing poems about living with husband or wife, practically admitting that the whole thing is a miserable farce. 'Why go on with it any longer?' he seems to imply. 'Why not become a decedent, and let your executors or administrators make returns for you on Form 1040 or 1040A?'"

"Something ought to be done about it," agreed my wife. "You might write to Mr. Mellon. But meanwhile don't forget your hat."

It was days and days later in the taxable year when I finished my ordeal of additions, explanations, deductions, and computations and, sitting in the midst of a perfect snowdrift of scratch-paper, feebly set down the last item of all-BALANCE OF TAX. It wasn't very big, that last item; the newspapers will not itch to publish it; but by the time I reached it the words in the tax-return which had come to have the most vivid meaning to me were exhaustion and depletion. Oh, Mr. Mellon, why must you make things so complicated for us? Why don't you just ask us how much money we have made during the year and tell us what to divide it by, and ask us whether we had rather pay in advance or have it put on next month's bill?

JOHN GALLISHAW

Show Him Some Signs

THE cause, indirectly, was the kindliness of "Peter." That was the name we called him behind his back. He was the Headmaster, and in charge of the Sixth School at St. Patrick's Hall. We loved Peter, a tall, wiry Irishman in his early fifties. He was grey-haired, ascetic, and grimly sarcastic, yet so kindly that he always regretted his sarcasms the moment he uttered them, following them with a stricken, “God forgive me; my tongue ran away with me." I discovered his weakness early and played on his feelings; I could always avoid a beating at the hands of Peter by a torrent of weeping. At the first sign of tears, Peter would release me, saying, "He's so high-spirited that he can't bear to be punished; the rough side of my tongue will be punishment enough. God forgive me." I know not how many punishments I escaped thusfrom Peter. But I aroused the envy of the less histrionically gifted, who whispered that I was "teacher's pet." The chastisement I escaped at the hands of the master I suffered at the hands of my fellow-pupils.

When I entered the Sixth School, I was a rather timid, sensitive boy of fourteen, much afraid of physical punishment. Although I could play a good game of hockey, or of "soccer" football, I usually chose the goaltender's position because that called for little actual tussling and physical struggle. I tried to avoid fist-fights; but no matter how much I tried, they were always forced upon me. Always, I was beaten. Because my heart was not in them, I submitted, took my punishment, and escaped. Yet the necessity for fighting always pursued me. All the boys I knew fought. We went in "crowds"; each neighborhood had its "crowd," formed as the adherents of some boy who had a redoubtable reputation as a fighter. This boy usually stimulated his followers to action; and when no better opportunity offered, fostered quarrels between members of his own crowd. The fights were nearly always begun with the same procedure. The bystanders, having stung the opposing boys to a willingness for action, placed a small stone or piece of wood on the shoulder of one, and said to his rival: "Knock it off." Once the stone was knocked off, the two opponents eyed each other, each striving by glares to intimidate his adversary. To one, the promoter of the fight said, "Say 'duff." This pregnant word being uttered, the promoter said to the other gladiator, "Give him a curly puff." The "curly puff" was a slight blow upon the chest or arm: never upon a vulnerable spot. It was a sort of sighting shot, a mere preliminary. Once the "curly puff" was delivered, the fighters were free to use such methods as they wished or could kicking and biting were barred by the spectators; the object was for one boy to secure an arm hold around his adversary's neck with his left hand; then with his opponent's head in firm chancery, he "punched" with his right hand at the other's nose, stopping between each punch to ask, "Are you bet?" At the acknowledgment that a boy was "bet," he was released; the fight was over. When a newcomer came to the neighborhood, it was customary for him to establish himself by fighting some member of the crowd; usually I was selected. Every member of the "crowd" had at one time or another received my speedy acknowledgment that I was "bet."

When I was fourteen, however, I underwent a change. I grew up, as it were, over night, into a very tall, very wiry boy, with a smooth, girlish face which deceived many people as to my strength. I was very strong; and a good wrestler. Up till then I had submitted to defeat because I had no gusto for fighting, and no pride. Fighting bored me; and I didn't mind in the least being thought a poor fighter. I agreed with the verdict. But when I was fourteen, a new boy came into our crowd. It was in the winter-time; and we had been playing hockey on

Quidi Vidi Lake. The post-mortem laid the blame for our defeat upon me; the loudest in his denunciations being the newcomer. Ordinarily, I should have listened unmoved; but this new boy was the son of one of the newer pilots whom I had heard my father talk of rather disparagingly. Tribal pride rose in me; our family had been granted the original pilotage privilege for the port of St. John's, Newfoundland. For the first time I knew what real anger was. I challenged the new boy. He was shorter than I, but stockier. He said that he would fight me as soon as he took off his skates. My blood was up, and I retorted that I could fight him just as well on skates as off. preliminaries; no chip on the shoulder; no "curly puff." I struck him; he fell, rose to his feet, and we clinched. Locked in each other's arms we fought, rolling on the ice. I felt as a young bull must feel on finding unsuspected strength; fought with a passionate joy and with red hate. I had to be dragged away. A day or two later, we renewed the combat; again I won. Thereafter I actually liked fighting; joyed in it; sought it. I began with my own crowd, and went from them to the boys who at some time or another had beaten me.

There were no
I skated over;

I fought on the way to school; in school recess; on the way home from school; and often fought twice in the afternoon. I fought a redoubtable hero named "Brandy Nose," a great bully who had made my life miserable. In general, I have found that the common belief that all bullies are cowards has little foundation in fact. Between the roistering, swaggering, husky bully and the quiet little man in the corner, I prefer to take my chance with the quiet little man in the corner. "Brandy Nose" was certainly no coward. Although I conquered him, it was a near thing. I remember that we climbed the fence of the grounds surrounding Government House; and in a secluded spot where the snow had melted-it was just becoming Spring-we fought by rounds. We wore gloves; not boxing gloves, but regular winter gloves. A referee examined them solemnly, and although he appeared rather doubtful about the seams of my gloves, he at last pronounced them satisfactory. Each had his second; each had his group of adherents, who exhorted their champion to "show him some signs." They meant "science." I showed sufficient "signs" to win. "Brandy Nose" left his mark upon me; my face was cut; my nose was bleeding; I explained it at home by saying that in passing a furniture store on Water Street I had bumped into a chair which was hanging outside.

The formality of this fight was the reaction of boyhood to the great wave of interest in boxing that swept the island of Newfoundland that year. A local champion had arisen; had defeated opponent after

opponent; and finally had been induced to meet the champion of the British North American Fleet at the Prince of Wales' Rink in St. John's. Every boy in St. John's wanted to go; every boy in St. John's was forbidden to go; every boy in St. John's determined to go, permission or no permission. To counteract the evil influence, Peter devised an entertainment: an operetta, which ran for three evenings, including the evening of the prize-fight. I was cast for a part: a waiting maid to the princess, in which I wore a white dress, white shoes and stockings, and a wreath. I made a very demure young maid; I had a few lines; they were fairly important. I have forgotten them now, but I remember that the house approved. The first night I received applause; the second night it was redoubled; for the news had spread that the part was being done by a boy. The third night was the night of the prize-fight. I came home early that afternoon, despondent; for I knew that most of the "crowd" were planning to go to the fight, starting from home, ostensibly for the operetta. I knew that, even if I had no conflicting engagement, I could not go, because I had only ten cents, whereas the admission to the fight was fifty cents. There was nobody at home; I wandered, disconsolate, over the house; and came at last to my mother's bedroom. On the dresser was a lacquered box, filled with small trinkets. For a moment I had a wild idea of selling these, as I had read that people did, in novels. But I knew of no place that would buy them. I figured them, looking them over curiously, lifting them from the box. Suddenly my curiosity changed to interest; at the bottom of the box lay some coins. I seized them, eagerly at first, later with a growing sense of disappointment; they were foreign coins, which my father had gathered on many voyages. Some there were, however, which I thought looked enough like our own coinage to pass for it; these I selected, replacing the rest.

That evening I went to the theatre, appeared in the dressing-room, said something about being very sick, disappeared, and ran, as fast as my legs could carry me, to the Prince's Rink. There was consternation, I was told later, when I did not appear; they flattered me by telling me that it spoiled the show. While they were searching, I was at the Rink, forcing piastres upon the man at the ticket window. A burly man came along while I was thus engaged, and recognized me. He took the foreign coins, and paid my way in. As I sat beside him, he questioned me. For a wonder, I did not lie; I confessed everything. He swore he would not tell my father; he returned the coins; we were great chums throughout the evening.

I shall never forget that first prize-fight: the great overhead lights

glaring bluish-white upon the mob, close-packed on the benches, the odor of wet clothes steaming dry, of pine sawdust on the floor, of tobacco smoke from many loaded pipes, mingled in one heady aroma. Our man was Mike Shallow, a former boiler-maker; the navy man was “Gunner" Somebody. The fighters came into the ring, big men, white-fleshed; the Gunner wearing black trunks. The crowd gave a great roar of delight when Mike Shallow took off his dressing-gown, disclosing a silk belt of pink-white-and-green, the Newfoundland national colors. A brass band struck up the National Anthem. The burly man hummed it:

The Pink the Rose of England shows,
The Green, St. Patrick's emblem bright,
Whilst in between, the spotless sheen
Of Andrew's Cross, displays the White.

Then hail the Pink, the White, the Green
Our patriot flag, long may it stand;
Long may it sway o'er bight and bay,

Around the shores of Newfoundland!

There was a British warship in port. From the side of the rink opposite us, the navy men shouted encouragement: "Now, Gunner, put 'im across the road; show 'im wot for, Gunner"; to which our people retorted, "Knock his block off, Mike." The burly man beside me seemed a little disappointed at first, because Mike Shallow's legs were so thin; but he became reassured on observing the huge torso of the boiler-maker. When Mike Shallow squared off, and began sparring with his left hand, and using his right hand to guard, the burly man confided to me, “Nobody has ever felt the weight of his right hand; they tell me that he hit a bull once on the forehead with his right hand"-the burly man now leaned closer-"and killed the bull." Once, later, when the Gunner landed a smashing blow on our champion's face, the burly man leaned toward me, and said: "I hope that Gunner don't make Mike mad; because if he does, there's likely to be murder done, if Mike uses his right hand." Once Mike did use his right hand; the Gunner tottered; and the burly man beside me leaped to his feet, and shrieked, "Don't kill him, Mike." The crowd took up the cry, misinterpreting it; and shouted, "Kill him, Mike! Kill him, Mike!" The sailors encouraged their man; we encouraged Mike. Mike won; I think he was spurred to action by the shouts, "Show him some Science." The most enthusiastic of all his supporters was I, who shouted until I was hoarse, "Show him some signs, Mike; show him some signs!"

The burly man never told; I returned the piastres. In the dressing