“Another! another word! another to the same!”
“Mouse,” said the stranger, and Bonaventure turned and cried:—
“Mah-ooseh! my nob’e lil boy! Mah-ooseh!” and Crébiche, a speaking statue, spelled:—
“M-o-u-eth-e, mouthe.”
“Co’ect, my chile! And yet, sir, and yet, ’tis he that they call Crébiche, because like the crawfish advancing backwardly. But to the next! another word! another word!”
The spelling, its excitements, its moments of agonizing suspense, and its triumphs, went on. The second class is up. It spells in two, even in three, syllables. Toutou is in it. He gets tremendously wrought up; cannot keep two feet on the ground at once; spells fast when the word is his; smiles in response to the visitor’s smile, the only one who dares; leans out and looks down the line with a knuckle in his mouth as the spelling passes down; wrings one hand as his turn approaches again; catches his word in mid-air and tosses it off, and marks with ecstasy the triumph and pride written on the face of his master.
“But, sir,” cries Bonaventure, “why consume the spelling-book? Give, yourself, if you please, to Toutou, a word not therein comprise’.” He glanced around condescendingly upon the people of Grande Pointe. Chat-oué is in a front seat. Toutou gathers himself for the spring, and the stranger ponders a moment and then gives—“Florida!”
“F-l-o, flo, warr-de-warr-da,—Florida!”
A smile broke from the visitor’s face unbidden, but—
“Right! my chile! co’ect, Toutou!” cried Bonaventure, running and patting the little hero on the back and head by turns. “Sir, let us”—He stopped short. The eyes of the house were on Chat-oué. He had risen to his feet and made a gesture for the visitor’s attention. As the stranger looked at him he asked:—