“Boys,” said the Judge, “I've got a present for you.”
“What's that?” Swipes inquired.
“Hellmets,” said the marble-cutter, spelling the word with a double l, after he had spoken it—“a pair of 'em; one for each of you. Try 'em on.”
I did not dare refuse the honor, and poor Swipes had the same feeling. The helmets were on our heads in a minute.
“They're becoming,” said Mr. Crocket. “I like to see 'em on you.”
He pulled them down and fastened them with a strong cord. He seemed to enjoy tying the knot beneath our chins, and drew it tight.
We began our work, and were presently in the tortures of full atonement. Swipes dropped his tools by-and-by, and tried in vain to raise the helmet a little.
“I guess somebody has put some mustard in this helmet,” said he, in a loud voice.
“Mustard!” Mr. Crocket exclaimed. “Nobody would be mean enough for that.”
“It must be,” Swipes persisted.