y to please
the little tyrant, and which increased their value many times--so many
times, in fact, that he hid them every night in fear of burglars. Since
he concealed them each time in a different place, he was obliged to
ransack his auntie's room every morning, to the great disturbance of
Martha, the maid, who was an order-loving person.

Martha appeared just when he had triumphantly pounced upon his treasure
rolled up in the strings of his aunt's chiffon opera-bonnet.

"Mercy upon us, Master Dorman! Whatever have you been doing?"

"I want my shiny pennies," said the young gentleman, composedly
unwinding the roll, "to buy my big, high pony."

"Naughty, naughty boy, to muss my lady's fine bonnet like that! Look at
things scattered over the floor, and my lady's fine handkerchiefs and
gloves--" Martha stopped and meditated whether she might dare to shake
him.

Dorman was laboriously counting his wealth, with much wrinkling of
stubby nose and lifting of eyebrows. Having satisfied himself that they
were really all there, he deigned to look around, with a fine masculine
disdain of woman's finery.

"Oh, dose old things!" he sniffed. "I always fordet where I put my shiny
pennies. Robbers might find them if I put them easy places. I'm going to
buy my big, high pony, and you can't shake his hand a bit, Martha."

"Well, I'm sure I don't want to!" Martha snapped back at him, and went
down on all fours to gather up the things he had thrown down. "Whatever
Parks was thinking of, to go and get fever, when she was the only one
that could manage you, I don't know! And me picking up after you till
I'm fair sick!"

"I'm glad you is sick," he retorted unfeelingly, and backed to the door.
"I hopes you get sicker so your stummit makes you hurt. You can't ride
on my big, high pony."

"Get along with you and your high pony!" cried the exasperated Martha,
threatening with a hairbrush. Dorman, his six shiny pennies held fast in
his damp little fist, fled down the stairs and out into the sunlight.

Dick and Beatrice were just ready to ride away from the porch. "I want
to go wis you, Uncle Dick." Dorman had followed the lead of Beatrice,
his divinity; he refused to say Richard, though grandmama did object to
nicknames.

"Up you go, son. You'll be a cow-puncher yourself one of these days.
I'll not let him fall, and this horse is gentle." This last to satisfy
Dorman's aunt, who wavered between anxiety and relief.

"You may ride to t