What Gulian would have replied to this was never known, for at that moment an outcry arose in the hall, followed by the bump, bump of some heavy body rolling down the staircase, and Peter’s boyish voice shouting out, between gasps of laughter,—­

“Pompey, Pompey, I say!—­it’s nobody but me; oh, what a proper old goose it is; do, somebody come and thrash him.”

In a second Gulian and Kitty were outside the door, and beheld at the foot of the winding stairs poor Pompey, picking himself up, with many groans and much rubbing of his shins, while Peter, rolling himself nearly double with laughter, stood midway of the flight, with a queer object in his hand which Gulian seized hastily.

“It’s only a gourd,” gasped Peter between paroxysms.  “I kept it in my closet for a week, and half an hour ago I stole a bit of wick out of Dinah’s pantry and dipped it well in melted tallow, and than stuck it inside, when, as you see, having carved out two eyes and a slit for the nose, it looks somewhat ghastly when the light comes forth.”

“It’s a debbil, debbil,” cried Pompey.  “Massa Peter sent me to find his skates, and dat awful face”—­Pompey’s teeth chattered, and Peter went off in a fresh burst of laughter.

“It soured him properly, Uncle Gulian; and though I ran after him and shook it (it only looks gruesome in the dark, you know) he never stopped, and he stumbled on the first step, and then he rolled—­My! how he did bump”—­and naughty Peter sat down on the stalls and held his sides for very merriment.

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” said Gulian sternly, to whom practical jokes were an utter abomination, “and you deserve to be well punished.  Pompey, stop groaning, and inform me at once whether you have sustained any injury by your fall.”

“Law, Massa Gulian, you tink falling down dat stair gwine to hurt dis chile?” began Pompey, who entertained a warm affection for the mischievous Peter and dreaded nothing so much as a scolding from his master.  “Dose stairs don’t ’mount to nuffin; ef it had been de area steps dey moughten be dangerous.  Massa knows boys mus’ have dey fun:  please ‘cuse me for makin’ such a bobbery.”

“Well, I did it,” said Peter sturdily, instantly sobered by the expression of his uncle’s face, and his generous heart touched with Pompey’s defense of his prank, “and nobody helped me, so let’s have the whipping right off before dinner, please, Uncle Gulian, and then I can eat in peace—­even if I am a trifle sore,” wound up the sinner ruefully.

Gulian Verplanck’s sense of humor was not keen, but the situation was too much for him, and a queer, grim smile lit up his eyes, as he said slowly:—­

“As Pompey seems more frightened than hurt, and has interceded for you, I shall not punish you this time, Peter; but recollect that the very first occasion after this that you see fit to practice a joke on any member of my household, your skates will be confiscated for the remainder of the winter,” and with a warning glance he followed Kitty back into his wife’s room, leaving Pompey on the staircase, still rubbing his bruised shins, while the irrepressible Peter indulged once more in a convulsion of silent laughter which bent him double and threatened to burst every button off his tightly fitting jacket.