"We see which can hang on to a table longest, don't you know, by your
teeth. Did ever you?"

"No, I certainly never did; and--I don't think you'd better try it here,
Basil. It must be very hard on your teeth, besides ruining the table."

"It ain't healthy for the table," Basil admitted. "You ought to see the
tables at home! It makes like a little pattern round the edge,
sometimes. Quite pretty, I think. Say, are you the boss here?"

Seated on the pantry dresser, swinging his legs, the young gentleman
seemed as much at home as if he had spent his life at Fernley. The two
other children were eating hastily and furtively, as if they feared each
bite might be their last. Basil crunched his crackers and nibbled his
cheese with an air of perfect unconcern. "Are you the boss here?" he
repeated.

"Am I in authority, do you mean?" asked Margaret, who could not abide
slang of any kind. "No, indeed, Basil. Your Uncle John is the head of
the house, in every possible way. I hope you are all going to be very
good and obedient. He is the kindest, best man in the whole world."

"I think he's bully," said Basil. "I guess you're bully too, ain't you?
And it's a bully place. Hi, Mert, there's a squirrel! Look at him
running up that tree. My! Wish I had a pea-shooter!"

"Bet you couldn't hit him if you had!" cried Merton, as all three
children watched the squirrel with breathless interest.

"Bet I could!" said Basil, contemptuously.

"Guess he could hit it when you couldn't hit a barn in the next county!"
cried Susan D. in a kind of small shriek; then she caught Margaret's
eye, blushed furiously, and tried to get behind her bread and butter.

"I say! can we go out in the garden?" cried Basil.

"Yes, indeed, but wouldn't you like to come up and see your rooms first?
Such pleasant rooms! I am sure you will like them."

But none of the children cared to see the pleasant rooms. Receiving
permission to play till they heard the dinner-bell, they fled suddenly,
as if the constable were at their heels. Margaret saw their legs
twinkling across the grass-plot. They were yelling like red Indians.
Susan D.'s hat blew off at the third bound; Basil shied his cap into a
bush with a joyous whoop, then snatched off his brother's and threw that
after it. Merton grappled him with a shout, and they rolled over and
over at the feet of their sister, who bent down and pummelled them both
with might and main, shrieking with excitement. As Margaret g