Tremendous quantities of soot were dislodged in the foul chimney by its struggles, and shot down with great velocity. Never was a chimney more artistically or more cleanly swept. The Rev. C. Floyd was indulging in a little lecture, which he thought would do Tommy good. "This, my friend," he was saying, "is the land of freedom and intelligence. You must not allow yourself to get behind the age. Keep pace with the times. There are people who would stifle education--who would throw a dense pall of black ignorance over the country, and----" At this moment a terrific avalanche of soot fell down, covering those in front of the fire. It flew all over the room, settling on the table, books and carpet nearly an inch thick. Mr. and Mrs. Floyd and Tommy, as soon as they could get their eyes open, looked at one another in blank dismay. They were as black as negroes, and began to sneeze and cough as if they had suddenly caught cold. "Dear me," said Mr. Floyd, retreating to the door. "What in the world is it?" exclaimed Mrs. Floyd, following him. Down came another cloud of soot, which struck Tommy full in the face. Mr. Floyd opened the door and called for help. Suddenly a dark object darted down the chimney, surrounded with soot, and uttering a fiendish scream as its feet touched the coals, dashed across the room, made one spring for the window, leaped into the street and was seen no more. "The devil!" muttered Mr. Floyd. "Heaven defend us!" said his wife. The young gentlemen came out of the schoolroom, and seeing these black, unearthly looking objects before them, hastily retreated. Mr. Floyd looked toward the staircase. He saw Bobsey coming down, and a suspicion at once crowded his mind. "Where have you been?" he asked. "Nowhere," replied Bobsey. "What was it you put down the chimney?" "Vell, then, 'ere's a go?" said Bobsey, assuming an air of injured innocence. "'Cos I'm going to leave your hemploy, I'm not to be accused of everything. Oh! no--not much. I ain't a nigger slave." "I'll send for a policeman," cried Mr. Floyd. "Send for a dozen," said Bobsey, who retreated to the kitchen. Mr. Floyd's anger was now at its height. He seized Tommy and dragged him into the schoolroom. "You're in the plot," he exclaimed, "and I'll cane you. Bend your back, sir, and touch your toes with your fingers." At the same time he took a cane from his desk. "I won't," answered Tommy, resolutely. The Rev. C. Floyd looked perfectly diabolical with his black face and hands, while Tommy resembled one of the attendant imps. All the young gentlemen were highly amused, but the discipline of the academy was so strict that they did not dare to laugh. Finding that Tommy would not submit to the cane, the reverend gentleman endeavored to strike him where he stood. The boy, however, dived between his legs, throwing him on his face, and ran away to the kitchen, where the cook considerately washed his face and hands, and sewed the buttons on his coat.