Time passed very happily until noon, when Louis trotted home, to announce to his father that it was “nice to ’vide. When we bofe play togevver, it’s as good as if they was all mine,” he said.
For all reply, Metzerott produced a brown paper package of a charmingly mysterious shape, and watched with a lurking smile the eager little fingers struggle with the string.
“Oh! what is it?” cried little Louis.
It was of tin, painted in gay colors, and it spun upon the floor, upon being wound, with a loud humming noise.
“Now,” said Metzerott, when the first edge of delight had worn off, “how about George? you can’t divide a top with him.”
“No,” returned Louis with a mournful shake of his head, “you can’t ’vide one top.”
He leaned his chin upon his two plump hands, as he sat tailor fashion on the floor, and delivered himself up to contemplation of the top, which lay just where it had toppled over from its last spin, as if there were inspiration in its gaudy hues. Presently he looked up brightly.
“I know,” he said, “we can spin it togevver, and it can be bofe of ours. That’s the only way to ’vide a top!”
“You’re your mother’s own son,” said Metzerott. “Come, dinner is ready, let’s see how you ’vide that. There’s a splendid pot of soup, enough for a dozen; so never say your father can’t cook.”
But scarcely had they seated themselves at the table when a heavy fall in the room above was followed by two shrill, feeble, feminine shrieks. Metzerott ran hastily up the stairs, which he had not ascended since the death of his wife, followed more slowly by Louis, to whom they were more familiar, though the silent pre-occupation of the sisters had not tended to encourage his visits.