"Put the doormat on the top of it."
"You did, did you? Wait till I catch you!" cried Mr. Floyd. "I'll teach you to play your jokes upon me."
Tommy endeavored to escape, but Mr. Floyd caught him by the ear.
"I've got him," he exclaimed, "now pound him. Thrash him. Punch him. Punch him severely. This will never do. He's worse than Bobsey, and that is saying a great deal."
The Rev. C. Floyd grasped Tommy by the coat collar and shook him so violently that four more buttons dropped off his jacket, which consequently bulged out in front in a very dilapidated and drunken manner, suggestive of having been on a spree, and not having had time to put in the necessary repairs.
"Leave off!" cried Tommy.
"Are you a fool?" said Mr. Floyd.
"I don't know, but it's my opinion you're trying to make me one. Let up—now stop! I want you to stop, or I'll kick your shins. Quit, won't you?"
Mr. Floyd let him go and glared at him.
"Go and take the mat away, and if you play me any more tricks I'll cane you in the presence of the young gentlemen," he exclaimed.