"Tornado, please, nephew; not cyclone."

"Well, uncle Phaeton, have it your own way. Under either name, I
fancy the thing-a-ma-jig would kick up a high old bobbery with a
man's political economy should it chance to go bu'st right there!

And, besides, when I was a weenty little fellow I was taught
never to call a man a fool or a liar--"

"Waldo!" sharply warned his brother, turning again.

"So long as I knew myself to be in the wrong," coolly finished
the youngster, face grave, but eyes twinkling, as they turned
towards his mistaken mentor. "What is it, my dear Bruno?"

"There is one thing neither cyclone nor tornado could ever
deprive you of, Kid, and that is--"

"My beauty, wit, and good sense,--thanks, awfully! Nor you, my
dear Bruno, although my inbred politeness forbids my explaining
just why."

There was a queer-sounding chuckle as Professor Featherwit turned
away, busying himself about that rude-built shed and shanty which
sheltered the pride of his brain and the pet of his heart, while
Bruno smiled indulgently as he took a few steps away from those
stunted trees in order to gain a fairer view of the stormy
heavens.