“Look the other way please, people,” called Shortie, promptly placing Wheedles across his knee—­two men holding his arms, two more his kicking legs—­while Shortie properly and deliberately administered twenty sounding spanks.  Then releasing him he said to the others who were nothing loath: 

“Finish the job.  I’ve done my part and I’ve had one corking big feed.”

And they finished it by holding poor Wheedles by his shoulders and feet and bumping him upon the grass until he must have seen stars—­and the dinner was well shaken down.

“Now will you try to get away from us?” they demanded, putting him upon his feet.

“It’s all over but the shouting, Little Mother, and we’ll be good,” they laughed as they trooped back to the table, settling blouses, and giving hasty pats to their dishevelled pates, for Wheedles had certainly given them a run for their money.

Meanwhile, Jerome and Mammy had looked on half in consternation, half in glee, for where is your pure-blooded African, old or young, who doesn’t sympathize with monkey-shines?  As the administrators of justice were in the midst of their self-imposed duties, the half-dozen little darky servitors appeared around the corner of the house bearing the dessert, and there is no telling what might have happened to it had not Aunt Cynthia, hearing the uproar, and “cravin’ fer ter know ef de rown’ worl’ was a-comin’ to an end,” followed close behind her satellites.  That great mold of ice cream, mound of golden wine jelly, dishes of cakes galore would certainly have met total destruction but for her prompt and emphatic command: 

“Yo’ chillern ‘tend to yo’ bisness an’ nemmine what gwine on over yander.”  That saved the feast, for the little darkies were convinced that “one ob dose young mens liked ter be kill fer suah.”

Had it been mid-July instead of a Maryland November that ice cream could not have vanished more quickly, and in the process of its disappearance, Jerome vanished also.  This was not noticed by Peggy’s guests, but his return was hailed with first a spontaneous shout and then a: 

“Rah!  Rah!  Hoohrah!  Hoohrah!  Navy Hoohrah!” and “Oh that’s some cake!” “Nothing the matter with that edifice.”  “Who said we couldn’t eat any more?” For with the dignity of a majordomo Jerome bore upon its frilled paper doily a huge chocolate layer cake, ornately decorated with yellow icing, and twenty dark blue candles, their yellow flames barely flickering in the still air, while behind him walked his little trenchermen, one bearing a big glass pitcher of amber cider, another, dishes of nuts, and another a tray of Mammy Lucy’s home-made candies.

If ever a birthday cake was enjoyed and appreciated, certainly that one was, and there is no telling how long the merry party would have lingered over the nuts, candies and cider had not a startling interruption taken place.