kitchen door with the other servants!'

With a thrust of the hand he pushed Harold back and was about to shut
the door upon him when, with a quick, dextrous movement, Harold darted
past him into the hall, saying, as he did so:

'Darn you, Tom Tracy, I won't go to the back kitchen door, and I'm not a
servant, and if you call me so again I'll lick you!'

How the matter would have ended is doubtful, if Mrs. Tracy had not
called from the head of the stairs:

'Thomas! Thomas Tracy! I am ashamed of you! Come to me this minute! And
you, boy, go to the kitchen; or, no--now you are here, come up stairs,
and I'll tell you what you are to do.'

Her directions were much like those of Dick St. Claire, except that she
laid more stress upon the fact that he was not to speak to any one
familiarly, but was to be in all respects a machine. Just what she meant
by that Harold did not know; but he hung his cap on a bracket, and
taking his place where she told him to stand, watched her admiringly as
she went down the staircase, with her peach-blow satin trailing behind
her, and followed, by her husband, who looked and felt anxious and ill
at ease.

Tom had disappeared, but his younger brother, Jack, who was wholly
unlike him, came to Harold's side, and began telling him what quantities
of good things there were in the dining-room and pantry, and that his
Uncle Arthur was coming home that night, and his mother was so glad, she
cried; then, with a spring he mounted upon the banister of the long
staircase and slipped swiftly to the bottom. Ascending the stairs almost
as quickly as he had gone down, he bade Harold try it with him.

'It's such fun! and mother won't care. I've done it forty times,' he
said, as Harold demurred; and then, as the temptation became too strong
to be resisted, two boys instead of one rode down the banister and
landed in the lower hall, and two pairs of little legs ran nimbly up the
stairs just as the door opened and admitted the first arrival.

CHAPTER VII.

THE PARTY.

The invitations had been for half-past seven, and precisely at that hour
Peterkin arrived, magnificent in his swallow-tail and white shirt front,
where an enormous diamond shone conspicuously. With him came the second
Mrs. Peterkin, whose name was Mary Jane, but whom her husband always
called _May_ Jane. She was a frail, pale faced little woman, and had
once been Grace Atherton's maid, but had married Peterkin for his money.
This was