The boy was five years of age; his hair curled like a cherub’s; his cheeks were round as an apple; he had his mother’s diabolical eyes, and the sensual mouth of his father—in short, the idleness and whims of the pair.
He wore a faded pearl velvet suit and while munching a hunk of cake sandwiched with preserves, he frayed out the ends of an old tricolored scarf inside a pearl gray felt hat.
The family was illuminated by a candle with a large “thief in the gutter,” stuck in a bottle for holder, which light fell on the man and left most of the room in darkness.
“Mamma,” the child broke the silence by saying, as he threw the end of the cake on the mattress which served as bed, “I am tired of that kind of cake—faugh! I want a stick of red barley sugar candy.”
“Dear little Toussaint,” said the woman. “Do you hear that, Beausire?”
As the gamester was absorbed in his calculations, she lifted her foot within snatch of her hand and taking off the slipper, cast it to his nose.
“What is the matter?” he demanded, with plain ill-humor.
“Toussaint wants some candy, being tired of cheap cake.”
“He shall have it to-morrow.”
“I want it to-day—this evening—right now!” yelled the innocent in a tearful voice which threatened stormy weather.