They both adjourned to the spot mentioned, and eagerly listened to what was taking place above. When Tommy entered the Rev. C. Floyd's room he found it full of thick coal smoke, which was pouring in dense volumes from the blocked-up chimney. The windows were open, and so were the doors, but this only gave a partial relief. "What on earth is the matter with the chimney?" asked Mr. Floyd. "I stopped it, sir," replied Tommy. "How?" "Put the doormat on the top of it." "You did, did you? Wait till I catch you!" cried Mr. Floyd. "I'll teach you to play your jokes upon me." Tommy endeavored to escape, but Mr. Floyd caught him by the ear. "I've got him," he exclaimed, "now pound him. Thrash him. Punch him. Punch him severely. This will never do. He's worse than Bobsey, and that is saying a great deal." The Rev. C. Floyd grasped Tommy by the coat collar and shook him so violently that four more buttons dropped off his jacket, which consequently bulged out in front in a very dilapidated and drunken manner, suggestive of having been on a spree, and not having had time to put in the necessary repairs. "Leave off!" cried Tommy. "Are you a fool?" said Mr. Floyd. "I don't know, but it's my opinion you're trying to make me one. Let up--now stop! I want you to stop, or I'll kick your shins. Quit, won't you?" Mr. Floyd let him go and glared at him. "Go and take the mat away, and if you play me any more tricks I'll cane you in the presence of the young gentlemen," he exclaimed. Tommy saw that he had made a mistake and hastened to rectify it by removing the mat, which being done, the smoke ascended smoothly, though the wind forced an occasional puff the wrong way. The wrath of Mr. Floyd became mollified, and when Tommy returned he talked to him calmly, and as became a minister and a schoolmaster. Bobsey, however, was not satisfied with the result of the evening's entertainment. He caught up the kitchen cat, a fine tabby, which was snoring peacefully on the hearth. "My gracious!" asked the cook, "what are you going to do?" "The guvnor's too mean to have his chimney swept, and I'm going to do it for him." "With what?" "With my new patent," answered Bobsey, grinning. "I shall drop this cat down the flue and pelt her with tiles to make her hurry down. She'll come out in the parlor looking splendid, and the fire won't do more than singe her fur." "Oh, you cruel wretch! I'll tell on you." "You will, eh?" said Bobsey, gravely. "If you do anything so rash I'll come to your bedside in the night and cut all your hair off so short you'll have to wear a wig." "A wig!" repeated Susan, horrified at the mere thought of such a terror. "You stop here, Susan, and don't never 'oller about me," said Bobsey, imperiously. Calling the cat such pet names as "poor tabby" and "good old Tom," he conveyed it to the roof. He was as good as his word. The cat was thrown down the chimney, and in spite of its claws, forced to descend.