The thief had run with it behind the bed,
where he had succeeded in getting into it. The collar enveloped his
ears. The skirts dragged upon the floor. He had buttoned it, to make it
fit better, but there was still room in it for two or three boys. He had
got on his father's spectacles and Fessenden's straw hat. He looked like
a frightful little old misshapen dwarf. And now, rolling up the sleeves
to find his hands, and wrinkling the coat outrageously at every
movement, he advanced from his retreat, and began to dance a
pigeon-wing, amid the convulsive laughter of the girls.
"Oh, my soul! my soul!" cried Bill, his voice inclining again to the
falsetto. "Was there ever such an imp of Satan! Was there ever"--
Here he made a lunge at the offender. Joe attempted to escape, but,
getting his feet entangled in the superabundant coat-skirts, fell,
screaming as if he were about to be killed.
"Good enough for you!" said his mother. "I wish you would get hurt!"
"What you wish that for?" cried the old grandmother, rushing to the
rescue, brandishing a long iron spoon with which she had been stirring
the gruel.
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