“Here, I’ve got something for you; I desire to contribute,” said Gentleman Bill.

But Joe was shy of his brother.

“Oh, we don’t let the missionary give anything!” he said.  “Here’s the hat what you’re gunter wear;—­give it to him, Cresh!”

Bill disdained the beggar’s, contribution; but, in his anxiety to seize Joe, he suffered his sister to slip up behind him and clap the wet, ragged straw wreck on his head.

“Oh, Bill!  Oh, Bill!” screamed the girls with merriment, in which mother and grandmother joined, while even their father indulged in a silent, inward laugh.

“Good!” said Fessenden’s; “he may have it!”

Bill, watching his opportunity, made a dash at the pretending Deacon Todd.  That nimble and quick-witted dwarf escaped as fast as his awkward attire would permit.  The bed seemed to be the only place of refuge, and he dodged under it.

“Come out!” shouted Bill, furious.

“Come in and git me!” screamed Joe, defiant.

Bill, if not too large, was far too dignified for such an enterprise.  So he got the broom, and began to stir Joe with the handle,—­not observing, in his wrath, that, the more he worried Joe, the more he was damaging his own precious broadcloth.

“I’m the lion to the show!” cried Joe, rolling and tumbling under the bed to avoid the broom.  “The keeper’s a punchin’ on me, to make me roar!”

And the lion roared.

“He’s a gunter come into the cage by-’m-by, and put his head into my mouth.  Then I’m a gunter swaller him!  Ki! hoo! hoo! oo!”

He roared in earnest this time.  Bill, grown desperate, had knocked his shins.  As long as he hit him only on the head, the king of beasts didn’t care; but he couldn’t stand an attack on the more sensitive part.

“Jest look here, now!” exclaimed the old negress, with unusual spirit; “gi’ me that broom!”

She wrenched it from Bill’s hand.

“Perty notion, you can’t come home a minute without pesterin’ that boy’s life out of him!”

You see, color makes no difference with grandmothers.  Black or white, they are universally unjust, when they come to decide the quarrels of their favorites.

“Great lubberly fellow like you, ‘busin’ that poor babby all the time!  Come, Joey! come to granny, poor chile!”

It was a sorry-looking lion that issued whimpering from the cage, limping, and rubbing his eyes.  His borrowed hide—­namely, Bill’s coat—­had been twisted into marvellous shapes in the scuffle; and, being wet, it was almost white with the dust and lint that adhered to it.  Bill threw up his arms in despair; while Joe threw his, great sleeves and all, around granny’s neck, and found comfort on her sympathizing bosom.

“Silence, now,” said Mr. Williams, “so’s we can go on with the reading.”

Order was restored.  Bill hung up his coat, and sat down.  Joe nestled in the old woman’s lap.  And now the storm was heard beating against the house.