“Guess who’s here, or you can’t get up,” said the infant captor.
“It’s Napoleon Bonaparte; don’t joggle,” said his father, running a brush steadily along the water-line.
“No! no! no!” with shouts of laughter from the whole attacking party.
“Then it’s Captain Ezekiel?”
This excited great merriment: Captain Ezekiel was an aged, purblind man, who leaned on a cane.
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.