"Never," said Monsieur Pet-airs
with solemn desperation, "have I seen such an incorrigible child, a
perfectly incorrigible child," and he shook his head and immediately
dodged a missile which had suddenly appeared from nowhere.
Night after night The Imp would play around our beds, where we held court
with our chocolate and our candles; teasing us, cajoling us, flattering
us, pretending tears, feigning insult, getting lectures from Monsieur
Peters on the evil of cigarette smoking, keeping us in a state of
perpetual inquietude. When he couldn't think of anything else to do he
sang at the top of his clear bright voice:
"_C'est la guerre
faut pas t'en faire_"
and turned a handspring or two for emphasis.... Mexique once cuffed him
for doing something peculiarly mischievous, and he set up a great
crying--instantly The Wanderer was standing over Mexique, his hands
clenched, his eyes sparkling--it took a good deal of persuasion to
convince the parent that his son was in error, meanwhile Mexique placidly
awaited his end ... and neither B. nor I, despite the Imp's tormentings,
could keep from laughing when he all at once with a sort of crowing cry
rushed for the nearest post, jumped upon his hands, arched his back, and
poised head-downward; his feet just touching the pillar.
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