Remark the second, followed by a second grin.
“Why, you don’t mean to say that you’re under the table, Master No. 8? Well you are a good boy! I’m sure I’ll tell your mamma.”
Another grin.
“You dear old fellow, to put yourself so nicely out of the way! You’re worth I don’t know what.”
Grin again.
“Master No. 8 under the table, to be sure! Well, and a very nice place it is, and quite suitable. Ever so much better than the hot kitchen, when there’s baking and all sorts of things going on. Here, lovey! here’s a little cake that was spared, that I was taking to the parlour; but, as you’re there, you shall have it.”
No. 8 grinned with all his heart this time.
“I wish I’d thought of that! Why, I could have painted my ship there without being squeezed!”
It needs scarcely to be told that this was the observation of the small boy who had watched an opportunity for emerging from the window corner without fuss, and was now carrying his little paint-box up-stairs to be packed away in the children’s bag. As he spoke, he stooped down to look at No. 8 and the dog, and smiled his approbation, and No. 8 smiled in return.
“No. 8, how snug you do look!”