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“Drive him out!” screamed Mrs. Partington, as
Ike whistled in an immense house-dog, who perambulated
the kitchen, dotting the newly-washed floor with
flowers of mud, and audaciously smelling Mrs. Partington's
toes, as the old lady stood up in a chair to avoid
him.

“Drive him out. What is his name, Isaac?”

“Guess,” replied Ike.

“I can't, I know. Perhaps it 's Watch, or Ponto, or
Cæsar — what is it?”

“Why, Guess.”

“I tell you I can't guess. Perhaps it 's Hector, or
Tiger, or Rover — what is his name?”

“Guess.”

“O, you provoking creatur! I'll be tempered to whip
you within an inch of your skin if you provoke me so.
Why don't you tell me?”

“I did tell you the first time,” whined Ike, pulling
the dog's ear with one hand while he wiped his dry eyes
with the other, “his name is Guess.”

The old lady was melted by his emotion, and, as soon
as the dog was sent out, some nice quince jelly settled
the difficulty.

“He is sich a queer child!” murmured she; “so
bright! I suppose 't was because he was weaned on
pickles.”

Ike ate his preserves in silence, but his eye was on the

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acorn on the post of the old lady's high-backed chair,
and he thought what a nice top it would make if he
could saw it off some day.