“Tom” was a bad baby, from the very beginning of his usurpation.  He would cry for nothing; he would burst into storms of devilish temper without notice, and let go scream after scream and squall after squall, then climax the thing with “holding his breath”—­that frightful specialty of the teething nursling, in the throes of which the creature exhausts its lungs, then is convulsed with noiseless squirmings and twistings and kickings in the effort to get its breath, while the lips turn blue and the mouth stands wide and rigid, offering for inspection one wee tooth set in the lower rim of a hoop of red gums; and when the appalling stillness has endured until one is sure the lost breath will never return, a nurse comes flying, and dashes water in the child’s face, and—­presto! the lungs fill, and instantly discharge a shriek, or a yell, or a howl which bursts the listening ear and surprises the owner of it into saying words which would not go well with a halo if he had one.  The baby Tom would claw anybody who came within reach of his nails, and pound anybody he could reach with his rattle.  He would scream for water until he got it, and then throw cup and all on the floor and scream for more.  He was indulged in all his caprices, howsoever troublesome and exasperating they might be; he was allowed to eat anything he wanted, particularly things that would give him the stomach-ache.

When he got to be old enough to begin to toddle about and say broken words and get an idea of what his hands were for, he was a more consummate pest than ever.  Roxy got no rest while he was awake.  He would call for anything and everything he saw, simply saying, “Awnt it!” (want it), which was a command.  When it was brought, he said in a frenzy, and motioning it away with his hands, “Don’t awnt it! don’t awnt it!” and the moment it was gone he set up frantic yells of “Awnt it! awnt it!” and Roxy had to give wings to her heels to get that thing back to him again before he could get time to carry out his intention of going into convulsions about it.

What he preferred above all other things was the tongs.  This was because his “father” had forbidden him to have them lest he break windows and furniture with them.  The moment Roxy’s back was turned he would toddle to the presence of the tongs and say, “Like it!” and cock his eye to one side or see if Roxy was observed; then, “Awnt it!” and cock his eye again; then, “Hab it!” with another furtive glace; and finally, “Take it!”—­and the prize was his.  The next moment the heavy implement was raised aloft; the next, there was a crash and a squall, and the cat was off on three legs to meet an engagement; Roxy would arrive just as the lamp or a window went to irremediable smash.

Tom got all the petting, Chambers got none.  Tom got all the delicacies, Chambers got mush and milk, and clabber without sugar.  In consequence Tom was a sickly child and Chambers wasn’t.  Tom was “fractious,” as Roxy called it, and overbearing; Chambers was meek and docile.