was only her scalpette, or false front, or whatever the dear creatures
call a half-wig, all frizzes and crimps. Almost faint with dismay at
the glare of anger in the lady's eyes, and the view of the bald white
spot on top of her head, I hurriedly drew the thing toward me to
remove it from the hook, when a confounded little Spitz, seeing the
spot, and thinking, doubtless, I was playing with him, made a dash at
the wig, and in less time than it takes to tell it, that thing of
beauty was a wreck forever. Its unfortunate owner, with a look which
nearly annihilated me, fled up-stairs to her apartment.

Nor was my discomfiture then ended. That Spitz--that precious
Spitz--belonged to Blue-Eyes; I tried to coax him to relinquish his
game; he would not be persuaded, and, in the ardor of his pursuit, he
swallowed the cruel hook. I had wanted to present her with a trout,
and had only succeeded in hooking her favorite pet--"her darling, her
dear, dear little Spitzy-witzy," as she called him, in tones of
mingled endearment and anguish, as she flew to rescue him from his
cruel fate.

"Oh, what can I do?" she sobbed, looking up at her brother.

"Cut him open and remove the hook," he answered gravely; "there is no
other possible way of relieving the poor fellow."

"I wish _I_ had swallowed it," I murmured, bitterly, throwing my fish
into the grass of the lawn, and pulling at my mustache desperately in
my despair of ever doing as other people do.

"I really wish you had," snapped Blue-Eyes, satirically, and with that
I walked off and left them to take Spitz from around that fish-hook
the best way they could.

I don't imagine I left many female friends on that porch, nor did I
see any of the Widow Cooper's boarders again for a week, when we were
brought together, under rather peculiar circumstances at a circus.

CHAPTER XI.

HE GOES TO THE CIRCUS.

In vain I struggled to regain the peace of mind I was beginning to
enjoy before I met Flora Knickerbocker. I could not forget her; I
dared not approach her--for I had heard a rumor that her dog had died
a _barb_-arous death, and his young mistress was inconsolable. I spent
the long, lazy summer days in dreaming of her, and wishing that
bashfulness were a curable disease.

One morning, very early, when

"The window slowly grew a glimmering square,"

I heard an unwonted commotion on our quiet road, and slipping out of
bed, I went to the window to see "what was up." It