"All right!" he gulped, and committed himself irremediably. "I--I'll be right here. You say so, and of course I've got to!" "Of course you will," said my mother, smiling at him charmingly. "I knew I had only to present the matter in its proper light, and you'd see it at once. You are so sensible, John Flint. It's such a comfort, when the gentlemen of one's household are so amenable to reason, and so ready to stand by one!" Having said her say, and gotten her way--as she was perfectly sure she would--Madame left the gentlemen of her household to their own reflections and devices. "Parson!" The Butterfly Man seemed to come out of a trance. "Remember the day you made me let a caterpillar crawl up my hand?" "Yes, my son." "Parson, there's a horrible big teaparty crawling up my pants' leg this minute!" "Just keep still," I couldn't help laughing at him, "and it will come down after awhile without biting you. Remember, you got used to the others in no time." "Some of 'em stung like the very devil," he reminded me, darkly. "Oh, but those were the hairy fellows. This is a stingless, hairless, afternoon party! It won't hurt you at all!" "It's walking up my pants' leg, just the same. And I'm scared of it: I'm horrible scared of it! My God! _Me!_ At a jane-junket! ... all the thin ones diked out with doodads where the bones come through ... stoking like sailors on shore leave ... all the fat ones grouchy about their shapes and thinking it's their souls. ..." And he broke out, in a fluttering falsetto: "'Oh, Mr. Flint, do please let us see your lovely butterflies! Aren't they just too perfectly sweet for anything! I wonder why they don't trim hats with butterflies? Do you know _all_ their names, you awfully clever man? Do _they_ know their names, too, Mr. Flint? Butterflies must be so very interesting! And so decorative, particularly on china and house linen! How you have the heart to kill them, I can't imagine. Just think of taking the poor mother-butterflies away from the dear little baby-ones!' ...--and me having to stand there and behave like a perfect gentleman!" He looked at me, scowling: "Now, you look here: I can stand 'em single-file, but if I'm made to face 'em in squads, why, you blame nobody but yourself if I foam at the mouth and chase myself in a circle and snap at legs, you hear me?" "I hear you," said I, coldly. "You didn't get your orders from _me_. _I_ think your proper place is in the woods. You go tell Madame what you've just told me--or should you like me to warn her that you're subject to rabies?" "For the love of Mike, parson! Have a heart! Haven't I got troubles enough?" he asked bitterly. "You are behaving more like an unspanked brat than a grown man." "I wasn't weaned on teaparties," said he, sulkily, "and it oughtn't to be expected I can swallow 'em at sight without making a face and--" "Whining," I finished for him. And I added, with a reminiscent air: "Rule 1: Can the Squeal!"