“Good gracious, what’s the matter?” cried my mother.

“It’s the war-whoop of the Objibeway Indians,” I promptly explained, and having emitted another, to which I flattered myself Jem’s had been as nothing for hideousness, we departed in file to raise a row in the kitchen.

Summer passed into autumn.  Jem and I really liked going to school, but it was against our principles at that time to allow that we liked anything that we ought to like.

Some sincere but mistaken efforts to improve our principles were made, I remember, by a middle-aged single lady, who had known my mother in her girlhood, and who was visiting her at this unlucky stage of our career.  Having failed to cope with us directly, she adopted the plan of talking improvingly to our mother and at us, and very severe some of her remarks were, and I don’t believe that Mother liked them any better than we did.

The severest she ever made were I think heightened in their severity by the idea that we were paying unusual attention, as we sat on the floor a little behind her one day.  We were paying a great deal of attention, but it was not so much to Miss Martin as to a stock of wood-lice which I had collected, and which I was arranging on the carpet that Jem might see how they roll themselves into smooth tight balls when you tease them.  But at last she talked so that we could not help attending.  I dared not say anything to her, but her own tactics were available.  I put the wood-lice back in my pocket, and stretching my arms yawningly above my head, I said to Jem, “How dull it is!  I wish I were a bandit.”

Jem generally outdid me if possible, from sheer willingness and loyalty of spirit.

“I should like to be a burglar,” said he.

And then we both left the room very quietly and politely.  But when we got outside I said, “I hate that woman.”

“So do I,” said Jem; “she regularly hectors over mother—­I hate her worst for that.”

“So do I. Jem, doesn’t she take pills?”

“I don’t know—­why?”

“I believe she does; I’m certain I saw a box on her dressing-table.  Jem, run like a good chap and see, and if there is one, empty out the pills and bring me the pill-box.”

Jem obeyed, and I sat down on the stairs and began to get the wood-lice out again.  There were twelve nice little black balls in my hand when Jem came back with the pill-box.

“Hooray!” I cried; “but knock out all the powder, it might smother them.  Now, give it to me.”

Jem danced with delight when I put the wood-lice in and put on the lid.

“I hope she’ll shake the box before she opens it,” I said, as we replaced it on the dressing-table.

“I hope she will, or they won’t be tight.  Oh, Jack!  Jack! How many do you suppose she takes at a time?”

We never knew, and what is more, we never knew what became of the wood-lice, for, for some reason, she kept our counsel as well as her own about the pill-box.