“Now your big warm gret-cut, pappy!”

“Pappy” was her own son; and the “gret-cut” was his old, gray, patched and double-patched surtout, which now came down from its peg, and spread its broad flaps, like brooding wings, over the half-drowned human chicken.

“Now put in the wood, boys!  Pour some of that ’ere hot tea down his throat.  Bless him, we’ll sweat the cold out of him! we’ll give him a steaming!”

She held with her own hand the cracked tea-cup to the lad’s lips, and made him drink.  Then she pulled up the comforter about his face, till nothing of him was visible but his nose and a curl or two of saturated tow.  Then she had him moved up close to the glowing stove, like a huge chrysalis to be hatched by the heat.

The dozing centenarian now roused again, and, perceiving the little nose in the big bundle on the other side of the chimney, was once more reminded of the sacred duties of hospitality.  So he got upon his trembling old legs again, pulled off his cap, and bowed and smiled as before, with exquisite politeness, across the stove.  “Sarvant, Sah!  Welcome, Sah!”.  And he sat down, and dozed again.

Fessenden’s was not in a position to return the courteous salute.  The old woman had by this time got his feet packed into the stove-oven, and he was beginning to smoke.

“Oh, Bill! just look a’ Joe!” cried one of the girls.

Bill left smoothing his broadcloth, and, turning up the whites of his eyes, uttered a despairing groan.  “Oh, that child! that child! that child!”—­his voice running up into a wild falsetto howl.

The child thus passionately alluded to had possessed himself of Bill’s genteel silk hat, which had been tenderly put away to dry.  It had been sadly soaked by the rain, and bruised by the flopping umbrella which Fessenden’s had unhappily attempted to hold over it.  And now Joe had knocked in the crown, whilst geting it down from its peg with the broom.  He had thought to improve its appearance by stroking the nap the wrong way with his sleeve.  Lastly, putting it on his head, he had crushed the sides together, to prevent its coming quite down over his eyes and ears and resting on his shoulders.  And there he was, with the broken umbrella spread, hitting the top of the hat with it at every step, as he strutted around the room in emulation of his brother’s elegant style.

“My name’s Mr. Bill Williams, Asquare!” simpered the little satirist.  “Some folks call me Gentleman Bill, ’cause I’m so smart and good-looking, Sar!”

Gentleman Bill picked up the jack with which he had pulled off his wet boots, and waited for a good chance to launch it at Joe’s head.  But Joe kept behind his grandmother, and proceeded with his mimicry.