and casts another missile still further from the mark. One of these goes
violently to the nose of Mr. BUMSTEAD, who, after a momentary enjoyment
of the evening fireworks thus lighted off, makes a wrathful rush at the
playful child, and lifts him from the ground by his ragged collar, like
a diminished suit of Mr. GREELEY'S customary habiliments.

"Miserable snipe," demands BUMSTEAD, eyeing his trophy gloomily, and
giving him a turn or two as though he were a mackerel under inspection,
"what are you doing to that gooroleman?"

"Oh, come now!" says the lad, sparring at him in the air, "you just
lemme be, or I'll fetch you a wipe in the jaw. I ain't doing nothink;
and he's werry good to me, he is."

Mr. BUMSTEAD drops the presumptuous viper, but immediately seizes him by
an ear and leads him to MCLAUGHLIN, whom he asks: "Do you know this
insect?"

"SMALLEY," says MCLAUGHLIN, with a nod.

"Is that the name of the sardine?"

"Blagyerboots," adds MCLAUGHLIN.

"Shine 'em up, red hot," explains the boy. "I'm one of them fellers."
Here he breaks away and hops out again into the road, singing:

"Áina, maina, mona, Mike,
Bassalona, bona, strike!
Hay, way, crown, rack,