al cold spread which the landlady thought
due to her household on the first day of the week.

Hiram hesitated, decided that he would skip the meal, and started up
again. But just then Fred Crackit lounged out of the parlor, with Mr.
Peebles following him. Dyspeptic as he was, Mr. Peebles never missed a
meal himself, and Crackit said:

"Come on, Hi-Low-Jack! Aren't you coming down to the usual feast of
reason and flow of soul?"

Crackit thought he was a natural humorist, and he had to keep up his
reputation at all times and seasons. He was rather a dissipated-looking
man of thirty years or so, given to gay waistcoats and wonderfully knit
ties. A brilliant as large as a hazel-nut--and which, in some lights,
really sparkled like a diamond--adorned the tie he wore this evening.

"I don't believe I want any supper," responded Hiram, pleasantly.

"What's the matter? Got some inside information as to what Mother
Atterson has laid out for us? You're pretty thick with the old girl,
Hi."

"That's not a nice way to speak of her, Mr. Crackit," said Hi, in a low
voice.

The other boarders--those who were in the house-straggled into the
basement dining-room one after the other, and took their places at the
long table, each in his customary manner.

That dining-room at Mother Atterson's never could have been a cheerful
place. It was long, and low-ceiled, and the paper on the walls was
a dingy red, so old that the figure on it had retired into the
background--been absorbed by it, so to speak.

The two long, dusty, windows looked upon an area, and were grilled half
way up by wrought-iron screens which, too, helped to shut out the light
of day.

The long table was covered by a red figured table cloth. The "castors"
at both ends and in the middle were the ugliest--Hiram was sure--to be
found in all the city of Crawberry. The crockery was of the coarsest
kind. The knives and forks were antediluvian. The napkins were as coarse
as huck towels.

But Mrs. Atterson's food--considering the cost of provisions and the
charge she made for her table--was very good. Only it had become a habit
for certain of the boarders, led by the jester, Crackit, to criticise
the viands.

Sometimes they succeeded in making Mrs. Atterson angry; and sometimes,
Hiram knew, she wept, alone in the dining-room, after the harumscarum,
thoughtless crowd had gone.

Old Lem Camp--nobody save Hiram thought to put "Mr." before the old
gentleman's name--sidled