After attempts to identify the invader—with the tax-collector come for taxes, then with the elderly minister making a pastoral call, with the formal schoolmaster, and with Samuel J. Tilden—the victim reached over his shoulder, and, seizing the assailant by a handful of calico jacket, brought him around, squirming, before him.
“Now,” he said, “I 'll give you a coat of verdigris. (Great applause from the reserve force behind.)
“I suppose Mother sent you to say dinner's ready,” said the father, rising and surveying the green bottom of the boat. “I must eat quick, so as to do the other side before half-flood.”
And with a child on each shoulder, and the third pushing him from behind with her head, he marched toward the vine-covered kitchen, where, between two opposite netted doors, the table was trimly set.
“Father, you look like a mermaid, with your green hands,” said his wife, laughing, as she handed him the spirits of turpentine. “A woman could paint that boat, in a light dress, and not get a spot on her.”
He smiled good-naturedly: he never spoke much.
“I guess Louise won't have much trade today,” said his wife, as they all sat down; “it's so hot in the sun that everybody 'll wait till night. But she has her tatting-work to do, and she 's got a book, too, that she wanted to finish.”
Her husband nodded, and ate away.
“Oh, can't we go up street and see her, this afternoon?” said one of the children.
“Who can that be?” said the mother, as an elderly, half-official-looking man stopped his horse at the front gate and alighted. The man left the horse unchecked to browse by the roadside, and came to the door.