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 “Well, he’s out, and if you take my advice you won’t wait until he comes home.”

“You won’t indeed,” shouted the little black Sharps.

“He’s never in a good temper,” said the black maiden.

“Never, never, never,” screamed the Sharps.

“We’re none of us in good tempers in this house,” said the maiden, “and it is the children’s fault. They tumble up and down this staircase.”

“Step on your toes,” shouted one of the Sharps.

“And fingers,” screamed another.

“All day long,” said the black maiden, “the nasty little things.”

“The children are dear little things,” said the Major indignantly. “If you hadn’t so many of these black things about to crowd your staircase they wouldn’t tumble up it. If you will allow me to give you a bit of advice”

“We won’t,” screamed the Sharps.

“They won’t,” said the maiden. “Sometimes they won’t even allow me to speak.”

“She has to be quiet sometimes,”’ said one of the Sharps.

“And you are Sharps?” said the Major.

“We are indeed,” shouted the Sharps.

“Then you are every bit as bad as Flats,” said the Major. “I wonder your master can stand you. No wonder his temper is bad!”

But his voice was drowned in a chorus of shouts and screams and yells.

“Bite him, pelt him, turn him out!”

In a moment Major C was surrounded. He was pinched, poked, beaten, and pushed down the steps, and the Sharps were following him out into the street, when there was a cry from the black maiden of “He’s coming, I can see him.” In a moment every Sharp ran inside the house, the black maiden vanished, and the door was shut.

Major C rubbed himself, shook himself, and tried to remember where he was and what had happened to him.

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