“Borax Bumbletree gasped an’ almost fell offen the wood-box. “‘How’d you know it was Bill Hooker?’ he asts quick. “‘Well, didn’t I see that new fandangled hat o’ hisn--that cady I’ve heerd so much about. Why, I’d ’a’ knowd him a mile.’ “Now Borax wasn’t ez slow on everything ez he was on music. He was right smart, he was. He seen the way the wind blowed. “Gittin’ offen the wood-box he went over to the settee alongside o’ her. “‘Pet,’ he sais, ‘I allus told you Bill Hooker couldn’t blow the bass-horn.’ “‘I otter ’a’ knowd you could blow a heap sight better,’ she sais quiet like, but meanin’ business. “‘That I can,’ sais he. ‘An’ after we’re merried--not tell after, mind ye--I’ll blow sech music fer ye ez ye never dreamed of.’” “My sights, but he was innercent!” the Loafer cried. “What do you know ’bout it?” snapped the Tinsmith. “Why, him thinkin’ she’d give him a chancet to blow.” CHAPTER X. _Little Si Berrybush._ The Chronic Loafer held in his hand a single sheet of a Philadelphia paper nine days old. The other pages had long since left the store in service as wrappings. This treasure he had rescued from such ignominious use and now was poring over it letter by letter. The center of the page was within three inches of the end of his nose. His brow was furrowed and his lips moved. At intervals he lifted his right hand and with the forefinger beat time to his reading. He was comfortably fixed on an egg-crate close by the stove. The paper hid him from the view of his companions. They could not see the earnest workings of his features but they could hear a steady, sonorous mumble and were curious. They knew better than to interrupt him in his arduous task, however, and awaited with commendable patience the time when he should choose to come forth from his seclusion and tell them all about it. They had not long to wait. Suddenly he jerked his head forward three times, viciously butting the paper, simultaneously emitting a burring sound not unlike that of an angry bull when he tears up the sod with his horns. The curtain fell to show him calm again but with a puzzled expression on his countenance. “Teacher,” he said, “what does _h-a-b-e-a-s_ spell?” “Hab-by-ace,” replied the pedagogue promptly. He threw out his chest and fixed his thumbs in their favorite resting-place, the arm-holes of his waistcoat. His attitude was that of a man who was full to the neck with general information and only needed uncorking. “Habbyace,” said the Loafer. “Habbyace--habbyace--that’s a new un on me.” “Doubtless it is,” the other retorted, “if you have never studied Latin. It means _have_.” “Have--have,” muttered the Loafer, more puzzled than ever. “Then what’s _c-o-r-p-u-s_ spell?” “Corpuse,” replied the pedagogue, “being the Latin for body.” “Then I’m stumped.” The Loafer crumpled up his paper in one hand and shook the other at the assembled company. “Them ceety lawyers certainly beat the band.”