"It is A," said his father.

   "A what?" asked Rollo.

   "A nothing," replied his father, "it is just A. Now, what is it?"

   "Just A," said Rollo.

   "Do not be flip, my son," said Mr. Holliday, "but attend to your lesson. What letter is this?"

   "I dunno," said Rollo.

   "Don't fib to me," said his father, gently, "you said a minute ago that you knew. That is N."

   "Yes, sir," replied Rollo, meekly. Rollo, although he was a little boy, was no slouch, if he did wear bibs; he knew where he lived without looking at the door-plate. When it came time to be meek, there was no boy this side of the planet Mars who could be meeker, on shorter notice. So he said, "Yes, sir," with that subdued and well pleased alacrity of a boy who has just been asked to guess the answer to the conundrum, "Will you have another piece of pie?"

   "Well," said his father, rather suddenly, "what is it?"

   "M," said Rollo, confidently.

   "N!" yelled his father, in three-line Gothic.

   "N," echoed Rollo, in lower case nonpareil.

   "B-a-n," said his father, "what does that spell?"

   "Cat?" suggested Rollo, a trifle uncertainly.

   "Cat?" snapped his father, with a sarcastic inflection, "b-a-n, cat! Where were you raised? Ban! B-a-n—Ban! Say it! Say it, or I'll get at you with a skate-strap!"

   "B-a-m, band," said Rollo, who was beginning to wish that he had a rain-check and could come back and see the remaining innings some other day.

   "Ba-a-a-an!" shouted his father, "B-a-n, Ban, Ban, Ban! Now say Ban!"

   "Ban," said Rollo, with a little gasp.

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