“Well, Peter, I always said you were about six months younger than either of your children, and now I am surer of it than ever.”
“What makes Uncle Fanny call her ‘Peter?’” whispered Kitty to Lou. “He always does it. He did it in one of the ‘Mitten’ books.”
“Because he thinks it teases me,” said Aunt Fanny, whose ears are very sharp, and heard the whisper.
“Why, Peteretta! does it tease you?” said Uncle Fanny.
“There! he is at it, worse than ever: let’s all go and shake him,” cried Aunt Fanny.
The six children rushed at him pell-mell—and he got a splendid shaking—little Bob squeezing one knee and tickling him almost to death; Peter the other, while the rest of the children shook him just where they could get at him.
“Ah! he’s sorry,” cried Kitty, in a sweet, coaxing voice; “hear how he sighs!”
Sure enough, Uncle Fanny was sighing, because he could not laugh any more, he had got so weak; but he caught at dear little Kitty’s comforting word, and gasped out, “Oh yes, I’m sorry, dreadful sorry—I’ll never call Peter Aunt Fanny again—I mean, Aunt Peter, Fannyretta—I mean—oh, Peter!! I will be good!”
Aunt Fanny had given his ear a good pinch, and the children laughed harder than ever, to see him holding up his hands, and pretending to be afraid of a little woman about half his size, and they were just going to shake him again, when he ran for his life, and, getting out on the front stoop, declared he would not come into the house again.
So they had to let Aunt Fanny go to him, after she had promised not to be long before she fired off another pop-gun at them.