ocket-money, and begging him to set
forth and obtain provisions for them as well as for himself. Neither
Harry nor Laura cared for eating the trash that was collected on this
occasion, and would have been quite as well pleased to distribute it
among their companions; but they both enjoyed extremely the bustle of
arranging this elegant dejeune or "_disjune_," as Peter called it. Harry
gathered leaves off the trees to represent plates, on each of which
Peter arranged some of the fruit or sweetmeats he had purchased, while
they placed benches together as a table, and borrowed Laura's white
India shawl for a table-cloth.

"It looks like that grand public dinner we saw at the Assembly Rooms
one day!" exclaimed Harry, in an ecstacy of admiration. "We must have
speeches and toasts like real gentlemen and officers. Peter! if you will
make a fine oration, full of compliments to me, I shall say something
wonderful about you, and then Laura must beat upon the table with a
stick, to show that she agrees to all that we observe in praise of each
other."

"Or suppose we all take the names of some great personages," added
Peter, "I shall be the Duke of Wellington, and Laura, you must be Joseph
Hume, and Harry, you are Sir Francis Burdett, that we may seem as
different as possible; but here comes the usher of the black rod to
disperse us all! Mrs. Crabtree hurrying into the square, her very gown
flaming with rage! what can be the matter! she must have smelled the
sugar-plums a mile off! one comfort is, if Harry and Laura are taken
away, we shall have the fewer people to divide these cakes among, and I
could devour every one of them, for my own share."

Before Peter finished speaking, Mrs. Crabtree had come close up to the
table, and without waiting to utter a word, or even to scold, she
twitched up Laura's shawl in her hand, and thus scattered the whole
feast in every direction on the ground, after which she trampled the
sugar-plums and cakes into the earth, saying,

"I knew how it would be, as soon as I saw whose company you were in,
Master Harry! Peter Grey is the father of mischief! he ought to be put
into the monkey's cage at the GEOlogical gardens! I would not be your
maid, Master Grey, for a hundred a-year."

"You would need to buy a thrashing machine immediately," said Peter,
laughing; "what a fine time I should have of it! you would scarcely
allow me, I suppose, to blow my porridge! how long would it take you,
Mrs. Crabtre