By and by we plunged into a dark hallway, climbed a long, unsavoury, corkscrew staircase, and knocked at a door. A gruff voice having answered, ''Trez! we entered Chalks's bare, bleak, paint-smelling studio. Then he demanded, in a sort of grunt, 'Eh bien, qu'est ce que c'est? always without pausing in his work or looking round.

"I guess she's bad!" he opined. "Some baby," Blister admitted. Then with disgust: "They've hung a fierce name on her though." "Ain't it the truth!" agreed the boy. "What is her name?" I asked, when the pair had gone by. "They call her Trez Jolly," said Blister. "Now, ain't that a hell of a name? I like a name you can kind-a warble."