“My dear,” said Mrs McTougall one evening to the doctor, “since that little boy Slidder came to stay with us things have become worse and worse; in fact, the house is almost unbearable.”

 

“My dear,” responded Dr McTougall, “you amaze me; surely the boy has not dared to be rude—insolent to you?”

 

“Oh no, it’s not that; but he must really be forbidden to enter the nursery. Our darlings, you know, were dreadful enough before he came, but since then they have become absolute maniacs.”

 

“You don’t mean to say that the little rascal has been teaching them bad words or manners, I hope?” returned the doctor, with a frown.

 

“Dear me, no, papa; don’t get angry,” answered the anxious lady—“far from it. On the contrary, I really believe that our darlings have greatly improved his language and manners by their example; but Robin’s exuberant spirits are far too much for them. It is like putting fire to gunpowder, and they are so fond of him. That’s the difficulty. The boy does not presume, I must say that for him, and he is very respectful to nurse; but the children are constantly asking him to come and play with them, which he seems quite pleased to do, and then his mind is so eccentric, so inventive. The new games he devises are very ingenious, but so exceedingly dangerous and destructive that it is absolutely necessary to check him, and I want you to do it, dear.”

 

“I must know something about the nature of the mischief before I can check it,” said the doctor.

 

“Oh, it’s indescribable,” returned the lady; “the smell that he makes in the nursery with his chemical experiments is awful; and then poor Pompey, or Dumps, or whatever they call him—for they seem very undecided about his name—has not the life of—I was going to say—a dog with them. Only last night, when you were out, the ridiculous boy proposed the storming of an ogre’s castle. Nurse was down-stairs at the time, or it could never have happened. Well, of course, Robin was the ogre, darling Dolly was a princess whom he had stolen away, Jack was a prince who was to deliver her, and the others were the prince’s retainers. A castle was built in one corner of all the tables and chairs in the room piled on each other, with one particular chair so ingeniously arranged that the pulling of it out would bring the castle in ruins to the ground. The plan of attack, as far as I could make out, was that the prince should ring our dinner-bell at the castle gates and fiercely demand admittance, the demand to be followed by a burst from the trumpets, drums, and gongs of his soldiers. The ogre, seated on the castle top with the princess, after a few preliminary yells and howls, was to say, in a gruff voice, that he was too much engaged just then with his dinner—that three roast babies were being dished. When they were disposed of, the princess would be killed, and served up as a sort of light pudding, after which he would open the castle gate. A horrible smell was to be created at this point to represent the roasting of the babies. This was to be the signal for a burst of indignation from the prince and his troops, who were to make a furious assault on the door—one of our largest tea-trays—and after a little the prince was to pull away the particular chair, and rush back with his men to avoid the falling ruin, while the ogre and princess were to find shelter under the nursery table, and then, when the fall was over, they were to be found dead among the ruins. I am not sure whether the princess was to be revived, or she was to have a grand funeral, but the play never got that length. I was sitting here, listening to the various sounds overhead, wondering what they could be about, when I heard a loud ringing—that was the castle bell. It was soon followed by a burst of toy trumpets and drums. A most disgusting smell began to permeate the house at the same time, for it seems that the ogre set fire to his chemicals too soon.

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