their coming by Mr. Jefferson, and in such peculiar
language," she said, after a pause.

"Didn't I tell you Bunch is a low comedian," I said, weakly.
"Besides, he knows them very well. Aunt Fanny is very fond of
Bunch."

"Aunt Fanny," she repeated, dropping a tin pan to the floor with a
crash; "I thought you said her name was Eliza?"

"Sure thing!" I chortled; while my heart fell off its perch and
dropped in my shoes. "Her name is Eliza Fanny; some of us call her
Aunt Eliza, some Aunt Fanny--see?"

She hadn't time to see, for at that moment Tacks rushed in,
exclaiming, "Say, sister, they's two strange women on the piazza
talking to Uncle Peter, and maybe when they go one of them will
fall down the steps if I put some more soap there!"

Like a whirlwind he was gone again. Clara J. simply looked at me
queerly and said, "The queens are here; treat them white, John!"

I felt as happy as a piece of cheese.

CHAPTER VI.

JOHN HENRY^S TWO QUEENS.

"Well!" said Clara J., after a painful pause, "why don't you go and
welcome your Aunt Eliza?"

Aunt Lize would be the central figure in a hot old time if she went
where I wished her at that moment.

Somebody had tied both my feet to the floor.

I had visions of two excited females lambasting me with umbrellas
and demanding their property back.

Completely at a loss I sank into a chair, feeling as bright and
chipper as a poached egg.

I felt that I belonged just about as much as a knothole does in a
barb-wire fence.

In that few minutes Bunch was more than revenged.

I was on the pickle boat for sure.

Sailing! sailing! over the griddle, me!

Scientists tell us that when a man is drowning every detail of his
lifetime passes before him in the fraction of a second.

Well, that moving picture gag was worked on me, without the aid of
a bathing suit.

When I awoke, Clara J. was saying, "Possibly it would look better
if I went with you. Wait just a moment, till I get this apron
off--there! come along!"

I arose, and with delightful unanimity the chair arose also,
clinging like a passionate porusplaster to my pantaloons.

"Mercy'" exclaimed Clara J., "that little villain, Tacks, has been
making molasses candy!"

"It strikes me," I said, trying hard to be calm, "that after making
the candy he decided to make a monkey of me. Darn the blame thing,
it won't let go! I suppose I've got to be a perpetual furniture
mover the rest of my life!"

Just the