“Den whar’s de baby?” For answer, a long low wail, smote upon their ears, as Savannah would have said.

“Fan me!” cried Mother Pop. “Dat’s Tiddlekins’ voice.”

“Never min’ about fannin’ mammy,” cried Weekly, Savannah’s twin, a youth of fifteen, who could read, and was much addicted to gory tales of thunder and blood; “let’s fin’ de baby. P’r’aps he’s been murdered by dat ruffian Hi, an’ dat’s his ghos’ dat we hears a-callin’.”

A search was instituted—under the bed, in the bed, in the wash-tub and the soup kettle; behind the wood- pile, in the pea vines; up the chimney, and in the ash-hopper; but all in vain. No Tiddlekins appeared, though still they heard him cry.

“Shade of Ole Hickory!” cried father Pop, “whar, whar is dat chile?” Then, with a sudden lighting of the eye: “Unchain de dog,” said he; “he’ll smell him out.”

There was a superannuated bloodhound pertaining to the Pop ménage that they kept tied up all day under a delusion that he was fierce. They unchained this wild animal, and with many kicks endeavoured to goad his nostrils to their duty.

It happened that a piece of fresh pork hung in the well, and Lord Percy—so was the dog called—was hungry. So he hurried with vivacity towards the fresh pork.

“De well!” shrieked Mother Pop, tumbling down all in a heap, and looking somehow like Turner’s “Slave- Ship,” as one stumpy leg protruded from the wreck of red flannel and ruffled petticoats.

“What shall we do?” said Sissy, with a helpless squeak.

“Why, git him out,” said Mr. Pop, who was the practical one of the family.

He began to draw up the well bucket, aided by Weekly, who whispered darkly: “Dar’ll be anudder hangin’ in town befo’ long, and Hi won’t miss dat hangin’.”

Soon appeared a little woolly hat, then half a black body, the rest of him being securely wedged in the well bucket. He looked like a jack-in-the-box. But he was cool, Tiddlekins was, no doubt of that. Mother Pop revived at sight of her offspring, still living, and feebly sucking his thumb.

“Ef we had a whisky bath ter put him in!” she cried.

Into the house flew Father Pop, seized the quart cup, and was over to the white house on the hill in the wink of a cat’s eye.

“He stammered forth his piteous tale,” said Savannah, telling the story the next day to her schoolmates; “and Judge Chambers himself filled his cup with the best of Bourbon, and Miss Clara came over to see us resusirate the infant.”

Mother Pop had Tiddlekins wrapped in hot flannel when he got back; and with a never-to-be-sufficiently- admired economy Mr. Pop moistened a rag with “the best of Bourbon,” and said to his wife, “Jes rub him awhile, Cynthy, an’ see if dat won’t bring him roun’.”

As she rubbed, he absent-mindedly raised the quart cup to his lips, and with three deep and grateful gulps the whisky bath went to refresh the inner man of Tiddlekins’ papa.

Then who so valorous and so affectionate as he? Dire were his threats against Hieronymus, deep his lamentations over his child.