ing, we can run into it in time of an earthquake."

"That's so," said Jimmy. "Or we could stay in and be cave-dwellers."

But as he took up the spade he chanced to look down at his new clothes.
He had spoiled one nice suit already and had promised his mother he
would be more careful of this one.

"Wait till I put on my old clothes, will you?"

Nate laughed and snapped his fingers. "We're in a hurry. I've got to be
in the tent in half an hour. Go along, you little dude! We'll dig the
cave without you."

The laugh cut Jimmy to the heart. And he had been learning to like Nate
so well. A dude? Not he! Besides, what harm would dry sand do? It's
"clean dirt."

Then all in a minute he thought of that wild journey on the roof. It had
made a deeper impression upon him than any other event of his life.

"Poh! Am I going to dig dirt in my best clothes just because Nate
Pollard laughs at me? I don't 'take stumps' any more; there's no sense
in it, so there!"

And off he started, afraid to linger lest he should fall into
temptation. Jimmy might be heedless, no doubt he often was; but when he
really stopped to think, he always respected his mother's wishes and
always kept his word to her.

This was the trait in Jimmy which marked him off as a highly bred
little fellow. For let me tell you, boys, respect for your elders is the
first point of high breeding all the world over.

Jimmy sauntered on slowly toward the door of the tent. There were a
great many benches inside, but it was not time yet for the audience to
arrive. Uncle James and Katharine and Edith were on the stage, and Aunt
Vi was adding a few touches to Edith's dress.

"O dear," said Grandmamma Graymouse, "I hope I shan't forget my part.
Tell me, Uncle James, do I look old enough?"

"You look too old to be alive," he answered; "fifty years older than I
do, certainly! Mrs. Mehitable Whalen, are you my wife or my very great
grandmamma?"

"But where's Nate Pollard?" Aunt Vi asked. "I told him to come early to
rehearse."

"He said he'd be here in half an hour," said Jimmy. "He's off playing."

"I hope I shall not have to punish my young grandson," said Uncle James,
solemnly, as he began to peel a sycamore switch.

Uncle James's name was now "Ichabod Whalen," and he and "Mehitable
Whalen," his wife, were such droll objects in their old-fashioned
clothes that they could not look at each other without laughing.

Their absent grandson, "Ezekiel Whalen" (or Nate P