“Peter, we have a great favor to ask of you,”' said Hazel, who seemed to be the ringleader of the little party.
“'Tain't no sort o' use, Miss Hazel; can't 'low it no how;” for Peter knew well enough what the favor was; “if I let you chilluns into dat gall'ry, you'll keep up such a snickerin' and gigglin', you'll 'sturb the whole Assembly. No, Miss Hazel; can't t'ink of it; can't 'low it no how.”
“Peter,” said Hazel, looking at him very searchingly, “are you going to let anybody in there?”
“Not a soul, Miss Hazel—dat is, not a soul 'ceptin' my John Thomas.”
“Ah! I thought so,” said Hazel, exultingly; “and it isn't fair, Peter, to do for Thomas what you won't do for us. We've come all the way into town just to see the dancing, 'cause mother said she was sure there wouldn't be any objection to our peeping through the gallery railing.”
“Did she say dat, sure 'nuff, Miss Hazel?” And Peter put his head on one side, and looked at Hazel in a very suspicious manner.
“Yes, she did,” said Tilly Marberry, coming to the rescue; “I heard her myself; and, Peter, we'll promise not to snicker.”
“Nor giggle, either,” said Tilly's other self.
“Which of you is which?” said Peter, slowly looking at the twins with knitted eyebrows.
“Oh, Peter, please don't stop to bother 'bout that now,” pleaded Hazel, impatient of any digression from the main point; “but you will let us in, won't you?” whereupon the other children chimed in with such imploring entreaties that the old janitor relented, and, getting on to his feet with an evident twinge in his rheumatic knees, felt in his coat-tail pocket for the coveted gallery keys. The good deed had its reward then and there, in the beaming and grateful faces of the troupe of little beggars.