And he sat down, and dozed again.
Fessenden's was not in a position to return the courteous salute. The
old woman had by this time got his feet packed into the stove-oven, and
he was beginning to smoke.
"Oh, Bill! just look a' Joe!" cried one of the girls.
Bill left smoothing his broadcloth, and, turning up the whites of his
eyes, uttered a despairing groan. "Oh, that child! that child! that
child!"--his voice running up into a wild falsetto howl.
The child thus passionately alluded to had possessed himself of Bill's
genteel silk hat, which had been tenderly put away to dry. It had been
sadly soaked by the rain, and bruised by the flopping umbrella which
Fessenden's had unhappily attempted to hold over it. And now Joe had
knocked in the crown, whilst geting it down from its peg with the broom.
He had thought to improve its appearance by stroking the nap the wrong
way with his sleeve. Lastly, putting it on his head, he had crushed the
sides together, to prevent its coming quite down over his eyes and ears
and resting on his shoulders. And there he was, with the broken umbrella
spread, hitting the top of the hat with it at every step, as he strutted
around the room in emulation of his brother's elegant style.
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