It was her custom, after these grand entertainments, to make nocturnal surveys of the kitchen, to assure herself that none of the delicacies had been secreted by the servants for their personal use and refreshment.  Charlie, aware of this, took his measures for an ample revenge for the beating he had received at her hands.  At night, when all the rest of the family had retired, he hastily descended to the kitchen, and, by some process known only to himself, imprisoned the cat in a stone jar that always stood upon the dresser, and into which he was confident Mrs. Thomas would peep.  He then stationed himself upon the stairs, to watch the result.  He had not long to wait, for as soon as she thought the servants were asleep, she came softly into the kitchen, and, after peering about in various places, she at last lifted up the lid of the jar.  Tom, tired of his long confinement, sprang out, and, in so doing, knocked the lamp out of her hand, the fluid from which ignited and ran over the floor.

“Murder!—­Fire!—­Watch!” screamed the thoroughly frightened old woman.  “Oh, help! help! fire!” At this terrible noise nearly every one in the household was aroused, and hurried to the spot whence it proceeded.  They found Mrs. Thomas standing in the dark, with the lid of the jar in her hand, herself the personification of terror.  The carpet was badly burned in several places, and the fragments of the lamp were scattered about the floor.

“What has happened?” exclaimed Mr. Morton, who was the first to enter the kitchen.  “What is all this frightful noise occasioned by?”

“Oh, there is a man in the house!” answered Mrs. Thomas, her teeth chattering with fright.  “There was a man in here—­he has just sprung out,” she continued, pointing to the bread-jar.

“Pooh, pooh—­that’s nonsense, madam,” replied the son-in-law.  “Why an infant could not get in there, much less a man!”

“I tell you it was a man then,” angrily responded Mrs. Thomas; “and he is in the house somewhere now.”

“Such absurdity!” muttered Mr. Morton; adding, in a louder tone:  “Why, my dear mamma, you’ve seen a mouse or something of the kind.”

“Mouse, indeed!” interrupted the old lady.  “Do you think I’m in my dotage, and I don’t know a man from a mouse?”

Just then the cat, whose back had got severely singed in the melee, set up a most lamentable caterwauling; and, on being brought to light from the depths of a closet into which he had flown, his appearance immediately discovered the share he had had in the transaction.

“It must have been the cat,” said Robberts.  “Only look at his back—­why here the fur is singed off him!  I’ll bet anything,” continued he, “that air boy has had something to do with this—­for it’s a clear case that the cat couldn’t git into the jar, and then put the lid on hissef.”