Now at the door, who should he meet but Sunday, grinning from ear to ear?
"I'm not going to be fooled by you, you infernal black pudding," cried Mole, exasperated beyond measure.
"Yah, yah," grinned the mirthful Caesar Augustus, holding his sides.
"Take that," cried Mole.
Sunday did take it.
It was not a pleasant dose, for "that," in this instance, meant a severe crack across the head with old Mole's walking stick.
Sunday rubbed his poll.
Happily the thick wool with which it was garnished saved the skull from much danger, and a nigger's head is proverbially tough.
But yet Sunday did not relish the indignity.
"You dam wooden-legged ole tief," he shouted out; "I'll gib it to yar for dis hyar."