The little beggar looked at his uncle half-frightened, and did not at once answer.
"What was it, my pet?" Granny said, gently and encouragingly.
"It was a piece of poetry I made up all by myself, all about Briggs," he faltered out.
"A piece of impertinence, it strikes me," remarked Uncle Godfrey.
"Well, as you are so fond of poetry, as you call it, I'll make up a piece about you," he said, whilst Granny glanced at the judge pleadingly, as if to ask mercy for the offender.
"Wait a moment ... yes, I have it," Uncle Godfrey said presently. And holding Chris at arm's-length, he repeated, imitating as he did so, his childish voice and accents:
"I know a little beggar,
He is a little goose,
He runs about all day
Rampaging on the loose.
I think that little beggar,
Would be better for a slap;
If he isn't pretty sharp,
He'll get a nasty rap.
"How do you like that?" he asked, when he had finished.
He was smiling all the while in spite of his severe tone,—very often the way with Uncle Godfrey. But Chris did not see that, and with his little face scarlet, he stood still, struggling with his tears, unable to reply.
His uncle looked at him and relented.