The Further Adventures of Chauncey Alcock

Adventure II

An Affair of Honor

In which Our Hero is called upon to exhibit his manhood and does so courageously, to the gratification of new friends and the heartfelt approbation of fellow citizens.

Good morning, Mr. Feldhausen, sir!" sang out Chauncey Alcock, for it was indeed he. "The high cirrocumu-lar clouds and a strong breeze, northeast by east, augur well for a pleasant, albeit somewhat brisk day."

"Ach [Oh], Chaunce," rejoined the dour (but goodhearted) Dutchman, proprietor of Feldhausen's Drugstore on the corner of Columbus Avenue and 74th Street in the city of New York. "I had forgodden it iz Zaturday already."

"It is, indeed," the handsome lad beamed. "There is no school today; hence, I will be able to work a full fourteen hours--with the customary fifteen minutes off for lunch. Ergo, I shall be enabled to contribute more to the well-being and creature comforts of my dear mother, who, as you are undoubtedly aware, suffers from a dropsical condition of her left foot, causing her untold pain and discomfort."

"You are a goot boy, Chaunce," the merchant nodded.

"I merely do my duty," the stalwart youth murmured, casting his eyes modestly downward.

And with that, Our Hero set to his labors with a right good will, first sweeping the floor of the emporium and then hosing refuse from the sidewalk in front. He whistled as he worked, in high good spirits, for that very morning he had received a missive that brought a smile of pride to his regular features.

The Sanitation Department of New York City had sponsored a contest, asking for a new title for the position of garbage collector. The first prize was an all-expenses-paid tour of the garbage dumps in the Greater New York Area, and there were several subsidiary prizes. Young Master Alcock did not win first prize, which went to the title "environmental engineer." Chauncey's suggestion was "litterary agent," for which he was awarded honorable mention. In addition, he and his dear mother would receive one additional garbage pickup during the coming year, so the lad had a right to feel proud.

Mr. Feldhausen, watching the youth as he worked busily dusting a display of bedpans, took note of the lad's cheerful demeanor and inquired as to its cause. Chauncey thereupon related the details of his honorable-mention award, as stated above, and was congratulated by both his employer and Miss Beebee Undershot, a sigmoidal young lady who clerked in the cosmetics department. The third employee of the store, the pharmacist, Mr. Irving Benoit-Dreissen, turned away with a spiteful look on his sharp features, for he was envious of Chauncey's comely appearance and sunny good nature.

"Goot for you, Chaunce," Mr. Feldhausen chuckled. "A head on your zhoulders you got. And that ain't all you got!"

Mr. Feldhausen's veiled reference--and another cause for the pharmacist's resentment--is already known to readers familiar with Chauncey Alcock's past activities, but it is detailed here for the benefit of readers who may be encountering the adventures of Our Hero for the first time.

During a completely accidental encounter in (continued on page 152)Chauncey Alcock(continued from page 143) the store's lavatory, Mr. Feldhausen had become aware that his delivery boy was blessed with a Staff of Life of such noble dimensions as scarcely to be believed. This magnificent cudgel, of almost equine proportions, had elicited expressions of incredulity and wonderment from the good Dutchman, and he had been unable to keep to himself his knowledge of Master Alcock's unique gift.

In an engrossing conversation with Benoit-Dreissen on the mating habits of pterodactyls, the worthy merchant had inadvertently let slip the delivery boy's secret. Now, the pharmacist was a man of depraved habits, for not only did he bite his fingernails but he parted his hair in the middle. Thinking to make Chauncey a figure of scorn in the eyes of Miss Bee-bee Undershot, whose sympathetic interest in Chauncey he had frequently observed and whose person he himself coveted for vulgar reasons that have no place in this narrative, the apothecary related to her the facts he had been told of the outstanding feature of Chauncey's manly physique.

But little did the villain ken the nature of the flexuous young woman to whom he relayed this indiscreet gossip, for Miss Undershot was possessed of an active intellectual curiosity and frequently read the obituary page of The New York Times in its entirety, greatly profiting thereby. Rather than being amused or offended by the pharmacist's sneering report, as he had hoped, the brave girl felt a need to investigate this scientific phenomenon personally, seeking to add to her knowledge of the world about her. Her opportunity arrived sooner than expected--the very day of which we speak.

That afternoon, when the absence of customers warranted it, Mr. Feldhausen sent Miss Undershot and Chauncey into the back storeroom to begin an inventory of the cosmetic stock. In this confined space, closed off from the selling area by a curtain of burlap, the young lady and the delivery boy were, perforce, in close physical juxtaposition, and the nubile cosmetician deemed the time auspicious to determine the veracity of Benoit-Dreissen's report.

Chauncey Alcock was counting the number of cans of Peel, a feminine-hygiene deodorant spray, banana flavored, frequently advertised on network TV with the catchy slogan "Come on down!" Miss Bee-bee Undershot brushed against him, as if by accident, and her brown eyes widened in astonishment. Facing Chauncey directly, she took the startled delivery boy by the arms and pressed closer, her body trembling.

"Miss Bee-bee," the youth inquired anxiously, "are you ill? Made faint, perhaps, by the close confines of this cul-de-sac?"

"Oh, Chauncey," she moaned, pressing even closer against his loins, "I could teach you so much."

"Splendid!" the eager lad cried. "For I have long believed that education is the cornerstone of character, and learning the road to a happier, more fruitful life."

But Miss Undershot's investigation was fated to come to nought, for suddenly the curtain was thrust roughly aside and the dark, twisted features of the evil pharmacist glowered at the embracing couple.

"Alcock," Benoit-Dreissen spoke sharply, "there is a delivery that must be made at once."

"Aye-aye, sir," the youth laughed merrily, adopting nautical argot for the nonce, as "Aye-aye, sir" is the reply by which sailors acknowledge the order of a superior officer--a titbit of information that may, in future, serve the reader well.

Thinking no more of the incident, and hardly hearing the rising sound of rancorous debate in the storeroom he had just vacated, Chauncey Alcock took the package from the prescription counter, went outside, vaulted onto his trusty velocipede and went pedaling off to West 70th Street, his golden curls tossing in the breeze.

The name on the package was Lady Angela Cockburn, and the address proved to be a gray-stone town house of imposing dimensions. Wheeling his "bike" into the service entrance, and forbearing to chain it to the iron railing, lest such an act be construed as mistrust of the honesty of his fellow citizens, Chauncey Alcock mounted the back stairs to the third-floor apartment that bore, neatly framed on the oaken door, an engraved visiting card that stated with elegant simplicity: Lord and lady cockburn.

From within this imposing portal came the sounds of loud music in a tempo Chauncey could not identify. He pressed the brass bell several times, to no avail. Finally, he rapped on the wood with his sturdy knuckles and soon was rewarded by a diminution in the volume of sound. There was a click of approaching heels, and then the door was flung wide.

The woman standing there was as tall as the Alcock boy himself but of a somewhat different shape. She was clad in a bright-red, form-fitting housecoat with long sleeves and a high, mandarin neck. The skirt was slit in front, up to a point just within the limit approved by judicial edict. From there to the neck, the gown was closed by a wide zipper, operated by a large brass ring from which a police whistle hung suspended.

The lady's burnished, copper-colored hair clustered about her shoulders in ringlets and her features were noble and precise, the softness of lips belying the severity of chin and brow. She exuded a scent of Bel le Locks, a perfume Chauncey was able to identify instantly by virtue of his occasional labors as clerk at the cosmetic counter of Feldhausen's.

"Lady Angela Cockburn?" he inquired politely.

"That's pronounced Cbrn," she said sharply. "And who might you be, boy?"

"I am Chauncey Alcock, delivery boy for Feldhausen's Drugstore, located on the corner of Columbus Avenue and Seventy-fourth Street. 'Your Health Is Our Concern,' " he replied cheerfully.

And then, for the first time, he noted an unusual fact: Lady Angela was wearing a monocle in her left eye, secured about her neck with a thin black ribbon. Now she observed him closely through her single glass, sweeping his resolute physique with an approving glance.

"Well, come in, come in, boy," she said. "Don't stand out there in the hall."

Chauncey obediently entered and the door was immediately slammed and locked behind him.

"I have brought your medication, ma'am," Chauncey said, proffering the package and realizing that milady was a woman of advanced age, perhaps as much as 35. "Since you maintain a monthly charge account with Feldhausen's, there is no need to recompense me for this purchase at the present time. We appreciate your patronage and will be happy to be of service in the future. I thank you."

"Well, you are a nice, polite boy," Lady Cockburn nodded appreciatively. "I like nice, polite boys. Come in here and sit down for a minute. Would you like a drink?"

"A clean glass of cold water would not be amiss, Lady Cbrn," the Alcock lad replied, making certain to pronounce her name in the manner she requested. "But I don't wish to trouble you...."

"No trouble, boy," the mature woman said. "Just relax and make yourself at home."

She went into the kitchen and Chauncey busied himself by surveying the rich appointments of this handsomely decorated apartment. He realized at once he was in the presence of vast wealth, for the dining table was surrounded by matching chairs and the table itself was laid with the best-quality paper tablecloth and paper napkins rolled in rings of real plastic. On a small end table, a chromium sailboat floated on a blue mirror, and on the mantel was a small reproduction of the Venus de Milo with an eight-day clock embedded in its abdomen. The delivery boy acknowledged he was in an apartment of people possessed of the highest taste and refinement.

Lady Cockburn returned, carrying a glass of water for Chauncey and a glass of amber-colored liquid for herself.

(continued on page 341)Chauncey Alcock(continued from base 152)

"Apple cider?" Chauncey inquired.

"Something like that," she nodded and sat down close to him. "Now, tell me all about yourself, boy."

"I was born approximately seventeen years ago in the home in which I now dwell on West Ninety-second Street," the lad recited readily. "My father was a streetcar motorman, unfortunately decapitated many years ago in a collision with a beer truck, near Madison Square. My mother suffers from dropsy of the left foot and I add to our scant income from my deceased father's pension by---"

"That is not exactly what I had in mind, boy," Lady Angela said, somewhat angrily. "What do you do for fun?"

"I attend the cinema occasionally," Chauncey reported. "I have seen Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs three times and The Sound of Music twice. I also read a great deal, preferring educational tomes such as Perverted Behavior in Crustaceans and The Reproductive Cycle of Peonies. I also---"

"Don't you have any girlfriends?" Lady Cockburn interrupted.

"No, ma'am, I do not," Chauncey said faintly, casting down his eyes and blushing. "I fear I am too young for such hobbies."

"Nonsense, boy," Lady Angela said warmly, putting her hand upon his strong thigh and moving it upward. "I can tell you're---"

She stopped suddenly. Her mouth opened and the monocle fell from her nerveless eye.

"What have we here?" she inquired incredulously. "What have we here, boy?"

"Mother Nature was kind to me," Feldhausen's delivery boy said modestly, his eyes still turned downward, the claret deepening in his fair cheeks.

Lady Cockburn replaced her fallen monocle in her left eye with trembling fingers. Then suddenly, without a by-your-leave, she unzipped Chauncey's trousers and leaned forward to peer at his Root of Heaven.

"Good show!" she cried. "Jolly good show!"

She rose abruptly, strode to the record player and turned up the volume.

"Do you recognize that song?" she whispered.

"Tip Toe Through the Tulips?" Chauncey suggested.

"No, I'm afraid not, boy. It's a tango called Jealousy."

"It is not suggestive music, is it, ma'am?" the cleanhearted lad inquired anxiously.

"Not at all," she assured him. "It's a merry tune. Would you care to dance?"

"I fear I do not possess the skills of ballroom dancing," the youth replied gravely. "Hence, any attempt---"

"Come," Lady Cockburn said, throwing wide her arms, "I will teach you."

Unwilling to offend any customer of Feldhausen's Drugstore, Chauncey rose to his feet, still in his unzipped state, and attempted to curve his right arm lightly and politely about Lady Cockburn's waist, just as he had seen it done in a television commercial warning of the horrors of "wetness." But to his surprise, milady wound his arms about her hips so that his hands rested on her haunches. She then encircled his neck with her arms and pressed close to him.

"The French way," she murmured.

"And now what must I do?" the lad queried.

"Just move."

"In which direction?"

"Any direction. Bend your knees a little. Take a step forward. Then a step back. In time to the music."

Chauncey Alcock had splendid muscular coordination, which he frequently displayed to good advantage on the playing field and the Chinese Checkers board. Now, catching onto the "hang" of this diversion, he began to move naturally and rhythmically about the room, Lady Cockburn clutched closely to him.

"Am I doing this correctly?" he asked.

"Simply ripping!" she exclaimed; and, as he concentrated on his dancing, she expertly guided him through the Mato Grosso and tucked his engorged halberd into that glorious realm from which no traveler returns unscathed. They continued their slow, sinuous movements and once again the lady's monocle fell from her limp eye and she seemed in a near swoon.

Chauncey, thinking this form of dancing was an ancient custom of British nobility and unwilling, as his dear mother had taught him, to scorn the sensitivities of any ethnic minority, inquired solicitously, "Am I inconveniencing you, Lady Cbrn? Have I assumed the correct position for social terpsichore?"

"Honi soit qui mal y pense! [Right on]" she screamed in reply, and away they went, tightly joined, dipping and bobbing, weaving and swaying.

They danced until the music reached a climax, Chauncey's suffused truncheon still exploring Carlsbad Cavern, when the noble lady suddenly shrieked and fell backward, pulling Chauncey down on top of her.

Fearing his weight might cause her serious injury, the concerned lad attempted to free himself. But the distraught lady held him tightly, and they were still in this position, breathing stertorously from their strenuous labors, when, behind them, a heavy, masculine voice shouted, "Dieu et mon droit! [What's going on here?]" and Chauncey Alcock looked over his shoulder to see a short, bull-like man, clad in fawn-colored slacks and a Norfolk jacket to match, glowering at them with a face flushed with choler. He was slapping a pair of yellow-suede gloves angrily against his thigh. "I insist you cease this disgraceful, lascivious and possibly illegal activity at once!" the man roared.

With some difficulty, Lady Cockburn and Chauncey disengaged and climbed shakily to their feet.

"I am Lord Cockburn, pronounced Cbrn," the frenzied intruder shouted. "And who are you, sirrah?"

"Sir," Our Hero replied calmly, for he was not conscious of any behavior on his part that could possibly justify Lord Cockburn's wrath, "my name is Chauncey Alcock. I am delivery boy for Feld-hausen's Drugstore, located on the corner of Columbus Avenue and Seventy-fourth Street. 'Your Health Is Our Concern.' "

"Enough!" Lord Cockburn cried furiously. And with that, he stepped forward and slapped Chauncey Alcock smartly across the face with his yellow-suede gloves. "I demand satisfaction!" he screamed.

"You'll get it," Lady Cockburn smiled dreamily.

Chauncey stood staunchly under the fury of the other man's blow. A quiet smile curved upward the corners of his regular lips, but he spoke not, nor did he attack the older man. He merely stood steadfast, resolved to accept all insults and provocations within reason, to remain calm and do his duty.

"Are you familiar with firearms, sirrah?" Lord Cockburn demanded.

"I am, indeed, sir," Chauncey Alcock replied proudly. "I have possessed an excellent cap pistol since the age of seven. Although not used in recent years, I believe it is still in operating order, as I am a firm believer in keeping all my possessions well oiled and ready for instant use."

"You can say that again," Lady Cockburn muttered.

Obediently, Chauncey repeated, "I am a firm believer in keeping---"

"Enough already!" milord shouted angrily. "I am not speaking of cap pistols, sirrah. I am speaking of these!"

And with that, Lord Cockburn strode to a nearby cabinet and returned with a handsome walnut box, which he opened under Chauncey Alcock's regular nose, displaying to Our Hero's cool gaze a splendid pair of matched dueling pistols, beautifully chased with silver decoration and bearing on their barrels the legend: Souvenir of Atlantic city.

"I am suggesting a duel to the death!" Lord Cockburn hissed, as well as any man might hiss the word death. "Are you willing, sirrah?"

"Sir," Chauncey Alcock stated serenely, in what was probably his finest hour, "if I have offended you in any way--which, I might add parenthetically, I do not believe I have, since your good and faithful spouse and I were merely enjoying an innocent lesson in ballroom dancing, which she was kind enough to proffer, since I lack that social grace--if, I say, sir, I have offended you in any way or caused unwitting damage to your pride, then I apologize, most humbly and sincerely. If, on the other hand, you are not willing to accept my heartfelt apology, then, sir, I feel compelled to state that I will be willing to meet you on the field of honor."

"To the death!" Lord Cockburn trumpeted.

"To the death." Chauncey Alcock acknowledged gravely.

"Bonne chance! [Groovy]" Lady Cockburn cried.

"Do you have a second, sirrah?" milord demanded.

The Alcock youth rapidly considered Mr. Feldhausen, Mr. Irving Benoit-Dreissen and his closest friend, Sidney, a mere stripling who sold pretzels and picked his nose. Chauncey quickly rejected them all.

"No, sir, I do not," he acknowledged.

"Then, sirrah, I suggest you and I meet alone on the Great Sheep Meadow in Central Park tomorrow at dawn, without seconds. These pistols you see here shall be loaded and primed. The choice of weapons, of course, shall be yours. We shall separate a distance of twenty paces, then face each other. I, as the aggrieved party, shall have the first shot. In the laughable and utterly ridiculous possibility that I miss, you shall then aim and fire. Is that satisfactory, sirrah?"

"Perfectly, sir," Chauncey Alcock replied, without hesitation.

They nodded coldly to each other and the Alcock lad then departed after Lord Cockburn had given him a "dime" (ten cents) as a "tip" (gratuity) for delivering the package from Feldhausen's, a remuneration Chauncey accepted with simple dignity, for such is the world of commerce.

Our Hero returned to his simple, but clean, hovel on West 92nd Street, where his dear mother had already prepared for him a nourishing repast of stuffed turnips. Mentioning nothing to her of his approaching ordeal, Chauncey retired to his own room at an early hour and, from his extensive library, read up on the punctilio of duels; for in this encounter with a titled foreigner, the American lad was anxious to give a good account of himself.

His reading completed, the determined youth did two deep knee bends and three push-ups to tone his muscles. He then bathed in a tepid shower, donned a light-flannel nightgown and set his alarm clock for an hour before dawn. Having bespoke his prayers, he closed his eyes and was asleep almost instantly, for, in truth, it had been a replete day.

On the morn, the sun rising from Brooklyn and heading toward Newark, Chauncey Alcock arose from a deep, dreamless slumber at the call of his trusty alarm clock. He dressed with extra care, wondering if he should shave and then deciding to let it go until the following Thursday. He looked in upon his sleeping mother before he left and pressed a gentle kiss on her soft cheek.

"Until we meet again." he murmured.

He then cycled slowly but determinedly toward the Great Sheep Meadow in Central Park, marking the beauty of the morn and reflecting it might be the last he would see. But such is the ebullience of youth that these mournful thoughts proved as ephemeral as the morning fog, and the new sun brought hope and renewed faith in the American way of life.

As he entered the park at 72nd Street, pumping steadily on his faithful "bike," he was suddenly aware of the great number of uniformed patrolmen in evidence. Squad cars and specialized police vehicles were "on the prowl," and even an official helicopter hovered overhead. For a moment, Chauncey Alcock feared that news of his impending duel with Lord Cockburn had been bruited about and the police had assembled to prevent possible bloodshed.

But then he realized that even knowledge of the duel would not justify this enormous display of police power and Chauncey brought his velocipede to a halt alongside one of the minions of the law, a burly constable who was looking about alertly, swinging his "billy" and on the qui vive (alert) for potential felons and incontinent schnauzers.

"Pardon me, Officer," Chauncey Alcock inquired respectfully. "Can you inform me as to the significance of these obviously extensive police measures?"

The guardian of law and order looked at him seriously and said in calm tones, "The Corset Fiend has struck again."

"No!" Chauncey Alcock gasped in horror and astonishment.

The patrolman nodded. "I fear it is so," he said in a solemn voice. "His most recent depredation occurred in a back yard on West Sixty-Eighth Street. Fortunately, he was observed by a witness and his escape on foot into Central Park was noted. Upon being informed of this desperate crime, the department stationed patrols at all entrances to the park. We have not captured him as yet, but we have every expectation that the shameful career of the Corset Fiend will be terminated ere the sun slowly dips below yon far horizon."

The officer was speaking of one of the most infamous miscreants ever to threaten the peace and security of the teeming metropolis. For almost six months, the Corset Fiend had made a shocking career of raiding back-yard clotheslines, stealing only ladies' corsets and running off with his loot before he could be apprehended.

His plunderings had become increasingly bold and the total cash value of the purloined corsets had risen to the point where a $5000 reward had been offered by the city fathers for his capture, "dead or alive," and women of all ages were warned to launder their corsets and hang them to dry in the privacy of their own homes or, if outside drying of the laundered garment was desired, to post an armed guard until the corset could be retrieved from the clothesline.

But now, it appeared, the Corset Fiend could not escape capture, for as Chauncey Alcock wheeled his "bike" to the Great Sheep Meadow, he saw dogged bands of constables beating the bushes and undergrowth of the park in an effort to ascertain the felon's whereabouts.

At the edge of the meadow, Chauncey came upon Lord Cockburn, pacing up and down with measured stride, carrying the pistol case under his arm and smoking a black cheroot.

"Good morning, Lord Cbrn, sir!" Chauncey Alcock sang out. "It is a beautiful morning, is it not, sir?"

"I did not come here to exchange pleasantries, sirrah," Lord Cockburn growled in hostile tones. "Are you prepared to see this affair through?"

"I am, sir," Chauncey Alcock said, lifting his fair head. "I wish, however, one final time, to extend my apologies for whatever real or fancied slight I have committed against your honor."

"Not accepted," milord said grumpily.

"In that case, sir," the Alcock lad said steadily, "I suggest we get to the matter at hand. I must tell you, sir, that in my readings of the code duello last night, I learned that I, as the challenged party, am entitled to the first shot. However, in view of my youth and your advanced age, I am willing to waive that advantage and therefore will wait until you have fired before I fire in return."

Without another word, Lord Cockburn opened his pistol case and offered it to Chauncey. The delivery boy selected a weapon and hefted it in his hand to gauge the balance. Lord Cockburn picked the remaining pistol and showed Chauncey how to draw back the hammer to prepare the weapon for instant use. Milord then cast aside the empty case and the wet stub of his cheroot and he and Chauncey took up positions, back to back, each holding his cocked weapon with the muzzle pointing skyward.

"When I say 'Now,' sirrah," Lord Cockburn said, "we will each take ten paces forward. I shall count aloud. At the end of ten steps, we will turn, face each other, and I shall fire. If your wound is not fatal--a prospect which, in view of my many years of service with the Bengal Lancers, I deem extremely unlikely--you may fire. Satisfactory?"

"Perfectly," the brave boy said with not a tremor in voice or frame.

"Now!" Lord Cockburn shouted, and he began to count in a loud voice as the two marched away from each other. At the count of ten, both swung around, facing each other and pointing their weapons. Lord Cockburn aimed slowly and deliberately at Chauncey's pride and joy, then pressed the trigger.

There was a sharp report, a small puff of white smoke and the ball sped into a nearby tree, where it mortally wounded an innocent squirrel busily removing the husk from a Spanish peanut.

"I am unhit, sir," Chauncey Alcock said coolly, "but I presume your honor has been satisfied. In that case, I do not wish to fire, lest I inflict a wound that might cause you needless physical suffering and cause Lady Cbrn unnecessary spiritual anguish as well."

"You must fire, sirrah!" Lord Cockburn yelled, stamping his foot with rage and vexation.

"Very well," Chauncey Alcock said calmly, "if you insist, sir."

And with that, the plucky lad turned his pistol aside and fired into the underbrush. Immediately, a loud scream was heard.

"Heavens to Betsy!" Chauncey cried. "What have I done?"

Then ensued a scene of chaotic activity as uniformed officers, "New York's finest," came running to the dueling ground, attracted by the sound of the shots, the death throes of the wounded squirrel and the screams coming from under a juniper bush. The squirrel soon "shuffled off this mortal coil," as the poet puts it, the two duelists were temporarily detained but soon released, when it was discovered that the screams heard by all were made by the Corset Fiend, who, hidden in the undergrowth, had had his posterior lightly creased by Chauncey Alcock's pistol shot. He was immediately taken into custody.

Little remains to be told. Although Chauncey was offered the $5000 reward posted for the capture of the Corset Fiend, he refused to accept the gratuity, saying his actions in the Great Sheep Meadow were purely fortuitous. Instead, the kindhearted lad asked that the $5000 be used to finance a feeding program for Central Park's squirrels, hoping thereby to make some amends to the relatives and friends of the unfortunate Sciurus vulgaris robbed of life by Lord Cock-burn's ill-aimed shot.

Chauncey Alcock's photograph and an account of his part in the capture of the Corset Fiend appeared in all the city's newspapers on the following morn, and when Chauncey reported for work at Feldhausen's Drugstore in the afternoon, subsequent to his educational labors, he was greeted as a "conquering hero" by Mr. Gustave Feldhausen and Miss Bee-bee Undershot, although it must be remarked that Chauncey's success was a source of much envious spite on the part of Mr. Irving Benoit-Dreissen, the depraved apothecary.

It should also be noted that the delivery boy accepted all these compliments and encomiums with modesty and quiet gratitude, with none of the braggadocio that might be expected from a youth of cruder sensibilities.

Later that afternoon, while taking inventory in the back storeroom with Miss Beebee Undershot, Chauncey Alcock was "all business" and scarcely conscious of the lady's fevered blandishments. In truth, the youth was thinking of the school homework that awaited him when he returned to his domicile.

Chauncey Alcock was enrolled in a course called Elementary Sex Education. He found the instruction of absorbing interest and he had every intention of enrolling in the following year's course, which was called Remedial Sex Education. There was, he acknowledged, much that puzzled him and much he had to learn. The ambitious lad was determined to stick to it.

This is a moral tale and may be read with enjoyment and profit by boys of all ages.