and things looked ominous for that
fragment of the club now in the battle.

Suddenly a sharp, penetrating, commanding voice was heard. "Don't you
touch 'em, you rascals," and a tall, resolute figure rose above the
prostrate Charlie, flourishing a broom. It was Aunt Stanshy, who, from her
window, had watched the boys, and, seeing the approach of that down-town
thunder-cloud, rushed out to meet the storm. Her prowess was witnessed by
Simes Badger, who, as a leading village gossip, was loafing away an hour
of leisure in a flag-bottomed chair before Silas Trefethen's grocery. He
told the story to all the village gossips of the masculine sex who
gathered at the grocery as soon as they had swallowed their tea and had
done as few chores at home as possible.

"Well!" said Simes, laughing.

He was a gaunt, long-drawn-out man, owning a straggling, gray beard, a
pair of brown, twinkling eyes, and a nasal voice.

"I saw something, to-day, that beat the Dutch. It was Aunt Stanshy, and
she did beat the Dutch; yes, she did, yaw, yaw, yaw! You see a parcel of
young ones went up the lane in fine feather, colors flying and drums
beat-in'." (This, to mildly put it, was a misstatement, as not a drum was
there to be beaten; but Simes had a weakness for "misstatements.") "Well,
they neared Water Street, and just then the enemy appeared, a lot of
down-townies, yaw, yawl My, didn't those sojers scatter, all but two! I
expected them two would be cut up like meat in a sausage-machine, but,
turnin' to look down the lane, I saw a sight! It was Stanshy! She had left
the house, broom in hand, and rushed up to the battle-ground, and there
she stood among them down-townie chaps, and she fetched that broom
backward an forward in grand style, as if sweepin' out of the way a lot of
dirt!"

Here Simes, who always fancied that he was gifted with dramatic powers
unusually fine, pulled a broom out of the stock in a neighboring barrel,
and began to sway it backward and forward.

"My! didn't Stanshy sweep the battle-field? The enemy went down like
leaves before a November gale!"

Simes, who was bound to act out the narrative, gave an unlucky sweep with
his broom above the heads of his grinning and gaping auditors, and whacked
Silas Trefethen, who was behind the counter putting up codfish.

"Mind, Simes, there! What are you up to, man?" shouted Silas, tartly,
trying to make a stand against the staggering blow dealt amid the laughter
of Simes's auditor