settle you that finally you will find
yourself--at the foot of the gallows in all human probability. I
suppose," sadly, "that you are even so far gone in scepticism as to
doubt the glorious truth of the moon's being made of green cheese?"

"Father says that's nonsense," says Tommy promptly, and with an air of
triumph, "and father always knows."

"I blush for your father," says Mr. Browne with increasing melancholy.
"Both he and you are apparently sunk in heathen darkness. Well, well; we
will let the question of the moon go by, though I suppose you know,
Tommy, that the real and original moon first rose in Cheshire."

"No, I don't," says Tommy, with a militant glare. "There was once a
Cheshire cat; there never was a Cheshire moon."

"I suppose you will tell me next there never was a Cheshire cheese,"
says Mr. Browne severely. "Don't you see the connection? But never mind.
Talking of cats brings us back to our mutton, and from thence to our
cow. I do hope, Tommy, that for the future you will, at all events,
_try_ to believe in that faithful old animal who skipped so gaily up and
down, and hither and thither, and in and out, and all about, that
long-suffering old plum-tree."

"She never did it," says Tommy stamping with rage and now nearly in
tears. "I've books--I've books, and 'tisn't in _any_ of them."

"It is in _my_ book," says Mr. Browne, who ought to be ashamed of
himself.

"I don't believe you ever _read_ a book," screams Tommy furiously.
"'Twas the cat--the cat--the cat!"

"No; 'twas the horned cow," says Mr. Browne, in a sepulchral tone,
whereat Tommy goes for him.

There is a wild and desperate conflict. Tooth and nail Tommy attacks,
the foe, fists and legs doing very gallant service. There would indeed
have been a serious case of assault and battery for the next Court day,
had not Providence sent Mrs. Monkton on the scene.

"Oh, Tommy!" cries she, aghast. It is presumably Tommy, though, as he
has his head thrust between Mr. Browne's legs, and his feet in mid air,
kicking with all their might, there isn't much of him by which to prove
identification. And--"Oh, Dicky," says, she again, "how _could_ you
torment him so, when you know how easy it is to excite him. See what a
state he is in!"

"And what about me?" demands Mr. Browne, who is weak with laughter. "Is
no sympathy to be shown me? See what a state _I'm_ in. I'm black and
blue from head to heel. I'm at the point of death!"

"Nonsense! you are