“A fellow can have a good time even if he doesn’t have a good dinner,” was their father’s assertion; and to them father was an oracle.
While the fun was at its height there came a knock on the little street door. The house was but the tiniest of cottages, and its floor raised but slightly above the street. Its door hung loosely from its upper hinge and dragged so heavily in closing that it was commonly left ajar. No landlord cared to fix it up for such poor tenants as now occupied the property, and they had not done it for him. So that when his knock was unanswered, because unheard, the visitor calmly entered, followed the noise, and presented himself before the gaze of the astonished, suddenly quieted lads.
“Hello, youngsters, hard at it?” demanded the stranger, playfully.
“Hop-toad, leap-frog; having frolics,” answered Harry, boldly, while his brothers, the twins, clung together and looked anxiously at the man.
“Nice game. Used to play it myself, when I was a little shaver. Don’t know but I might be persuaded to try it again, if I was invited,” said the unknown visitor.
None of the trio responded to this suggestion, nor was the game resumed. The three children stood utterly silent, regarding the gentleman with the intensely critical gaze of childhood which pretence finds so disconcerting. The stranger felt as if six gimlets were boring their way through his outward amiability to the vexation beneath; a vexation that he had allowed himself to come so far out of his way to find a man who could not possibly reside in such a hovel. None the less, since here he was he would ask a question or two for the satisfaction of it, and put the first one, thus:
“Say, youngsters, what’s your name?”
“Tom, Dick, and Harry. That’s me,” answered the latter, placing his arms akimbo, the better to stare at the questioner, it seemed.
“The mischief! Saucy, aren’t you!” rejoined the newcomer.
“And the baby. That’s Penelope,” added Tom, with his usual precise gravity.