“Where’s the butter?”

“I laid out a hunk of it,” I says, “on a piece of a corn-pone.”

“Well, you left it laid out, then — it ain’t here.”

“We can get along without it,” I says.

“We can get along with it, too,” he says; “just you slide down cellar and fetch it. And then mosey right down the lightning-rod and come along. I’ll go and stuff the straw into Jim’s clothes to represent his mother in disguise, and be ready to ba like a sheep and shove soon as you get there.”

So out he went, and down cellar went I. The hunk of butter, big as a person’s fist, was where I had