“Nobody knows I’m smart and good-looking ’cept me, and that’s the why I tell on’t Sar; that’s the reason I excite the stircumsances, Sar!”—­He remembered Bill’s saying he would “recite the circumstances,” and this was as near as he could come to the precise words.—­“I’m a gentleman tailor; that’s my perfession, Sar.  Work over to the North Village, Sar.  Come home Sat’day nights to stop over Sunday with the folks, and show my good clo’es.  How d’ ’e do, Sar?  Perty well, thank ye, Sar.”  And Joe, putting down the umbrella, in order to lift the ingulfing hat from his little round, black, curly head with both hands, made a most extravagant bow to the chrysalis.

“Old granny!” hoarsely whispered Bill, “you just stand out of the way once, while I propel this boot-jack!”

“Old granny don’t stan’ out o’ the way oncet, for you to frow no boot-jack in this house!  S’pose I want to see that chile’s head stove in?  Which is mos’ consequence, I’d like to know, your hat, or his head?  Hats enough in the world.  But that ’ere head is an oncommon head, and, bless the boy, if he should lose that, I do’no’ where he’d git another like it!  Come, no more fuss now!  I got to make some gruel for this ’ere poor, wet, starvin’ critter.  That hash a’n’t the thing for him, mammy,—­you’d ought to know!  He wants somefin’ light and comfortin’, that’ll warm his in’ards, and make him sweat, bless him!—­Joey!  Joey! give up that ’ere hat now!”

“Take it, then!  Mean old thing,—­I don’t want it!”

Joe extended it on the point of the umbrella; but just as Bill was reaching to receive it, he gave it a little toss, which sent it into the chip-basket.

“Might know I’d had on your hat!” and the little rogue scratched his head furiously.

“I shall certainly massacre that child some fine morning!” muttered Bill, ruefully extricating the insulted article from the basket.  “Oh, my gracious! only look at that, now, Creshy!” to his sister.  “That’s an interesting object—­isn’t it?—­for a gentleman to think of putting on to his head Sunday morning!”

“Oh, Bill!” cried Creshy, “jest look a’ Joe agin!”

Whilst he was sorrowfully restoring his hat to its pristine shape, he had been robbed of his coat.  The thief had run with it behind the bed, where he had succeeded in getting into it.  The collar enveloped his ears.  The skirts dragged upon the floor.  He had buttoned it, to make it fit better, but there was still room in it for two or three boys.  He had got on his father’s spectacles and Fessenden’s straw hat.  He looked like a frightful little old misshapen dwarf.  And now, rolling up the sleeves to find his hands, and wrinkling the coat outrageously at every movement, he advanced from his retreat, and began to dance a pigeon-wing, amid the convulsive laughter of the girls.

“Oh, my soul! my soul!” cried Bill, his voice inclining again to the falsetto.  “Was there ever such an imp of Satan!  Was there ever”—­