How it did scream! It lay on the stiffly braced knees of Hieronymus, and puckered up its face so tightly that it looked as if it had come fresh from a wrinkle mould. There were no tears, but sharp regular yells, and rollings of its head, and a distracting monotony in its performances.

“Dis here chile looks ’s if it’s got de measles,” muttered Hi, gazing on the squirming atom with calm eyes of despair. Then, running his fingers over the neck and breast of the small Tiddlekins, he cried, with the air of one who makes a discovery, “It’s got de heat! Dat’s what ails Tiddlekins!”

There was really a little breaking out on the child’s body that might account for his restlessness and squalls. And it was such a hot day! Perspiration streamed down Hi’s back, while his head was dry. There was not a quiver in the tree leaves, and the silver poplars showed only their leaden side. The sunflowers were drooping their big heads; the flies seemed to stick to the window-panes, and were too languid to crawl.

Hieronymus had in him the materials of which philosophers are made. He said to himself, “’Tain’t nothin’ but heat dat’s de matter wid dis baby; so uf cose he ought to be cooled off.”

But how to cool him off—that was the great question. Hi knitted his dark brows and thought intently.

It happened that the chiefest treasure of the Pop estate was a deep old well, that in the hottest days yielded water as refreshing as iced champagne. The neighbours all made a convenience of the Pop well. And half-way down its long cool hollow hung, pretty much all of the time, milk cans, butter pats, fresh meats—all things that needed to be kept cool in summer days. He looked at the hot, squirming, wretched black baby on his lap; then he looked at the well; and, simple, straightforward lad that he was, he put this and that together.

“If I was ter hang Tiddlekins down de well,” he reflected, “’t wouldn’t be mo’ dan three jumps of a flea befo’ he’s as cool as Christmas.” With this quick-witted youth to think was to act. Before many minutes he had stuffed poor little Tiddlekins into the well bucket, though it must be mentioned to his credit that he tied the baby securely in with his own suspenders.

Warmed up with his exertions, content in this good riddance of such bad rubbish as Tiddlekins, Hieronymus reposed himself on the feather-bed, and dropped off into a sweet slumber. From this he was aroused by the voice of a small boy.

“Hello, Hi! I say, Hi Pop! whar is yer?”

“Here I is,” cried Hi, starting up. “What you want?”

Little Jim Rogers stood in the doorway. “Towzer’s dog,” he said, in great excitement, “and daddy’s bull- pup is gwine ter have a fight dis evenin’. Come on quick, if yer wants ter see de fun.”

Up jumped Hi, and the two boys were off like a flash. Not one thought to Tiddlekins in the well bucket.

In due time the Pop family got home, and Mother Pop, fanning herself, was indulging in the moral reflections suitable to the occasion, when she checked herself suddenly, exclaiming, “But, land o’ Jerusalem! whar’s ’Onymus an’ de baby?”

“I witnessed Hieronymus,” said the elegant Savannah, “as I wandered from school. He was with a multitude of boys, who cheered, without a sign of disapperation, two canine beasts, that tore each other in deadly feud.”

“Yer don’t mean ter say, Sissy, dat ’Onymus Pop is gone ter a dog-fight?”

“Such are my meaning,” said Sissy, with dignity.