“He didn’t tell us anything.”
“Just like him. Didn’t he tell you there had been a real sisemarara—an eruption, an earthquake—there to-day. Didn’t you see the blood on his shirt collar? Don’t you see that bunch on top of my skull?” displaying a swelling the size of a hen’s egg. “Oh, he’s done it; he’s done it up to the handle.” And Bert went capering about the room, and slapping his sides with his hands.
“Tell us what you mean, if you mean anything, Albert,” said his father, “or else sit down and let Peter.”
“Tell, Pete, tell ‘em regular, and I’ll put in the side windows, the filagree work.”
Peter rehearsed the whole matter to his parents, by virtue of keeping his hand part of the time on Bert’s mouth.
“Why didn’t you tell your father or me what was going on, and ask your father’s advice?”
“Because,” said Peter, “James begged us not to; said he didn’t want to make a disturbance, and the boys would get ashamed of their tricks after a while, and leave off. James said we might tell grandfather if he would promise not to tell, and he did, and so we told him.”
“What did your grandfather say?”
“He had a long talk with James, and told him he had borne enough; to give no offence and take none; but if they continued to insult him, knock ‘em over.”
“Well, I don’t know about such doings; husband, what do you think of it?”