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‘I say,’ he said, ‘you don’t mind my telling you–but mother’s very particular about manners at table;’ but the clown relieved him instantly by saying that so was he–very particular; and he slid down the banisters and turned somersaults in the hall until Tommy joined him.

‘I do hope father and mother won’t be unkind to him,’ he thought, as he went in, ‘because he does seem to feel things so.’

But nothing could be more polite than the welcome Tommy’s parents gave the stranger, as he came in, bowing very low, and making a queer little skipping step. Tommy’s mother said she was always glad to see any friend of her boy’s, while his father begged the clown to make himself quite at home. All he said was, ‘I’m disgusted to make your acquaintance;’ but he certainly made himself at home–in fact, he was not quite so particular about his manners as he had led Tommy to expect.

He volunteered to divide the sausages and bacon himself, and did so in such a way that everybody else got very little and he himself got a great deal. If it had been anybody else, Tommy would certainly have called this ‘piggish’; as it was, he tried to think it was all fun, and that he himself had no particular appetite.

His cousin Barbara, a little girl of about his own age, was staying with them just then, and came down presently to breakfast. ‘Oh, my!’ said the clown, laying a great red hand on his heart, ‘what a nice little gal you are, ain’t yer? Come and sit by me, my dear!’

‘No, thank you; I’m going to sit by Aunt Mary,’ she replied, looking rather shy and surprised.

‘Allow me, missy,’ he persisted, ‘to pass you the strawberry-jam and the muffins!’

‘I’ll have some jam, thank you,’ she replied.

He looked round and chuckled. ‘Oh, I say; that little gal said “thank you” before she got it!’ he exclaimed. ‘There ain’t no muffins, and I’ve eaten all the jam!’ which made Tommy choke with laughter.

Barbara flushed. ‘That’s a very stupid joke,’ she pronounced severely, ‘and rude, too; it’s a pity you weren’t taught to behave better when you were young.’

‘So I was!’ said the clown, with his mouth full.

‘Then you’ve forgotten it,’ she said; ‘you’re nothing but a big baby, that you are!’

‘Yah!’ retorted the clown; ‘so are you a big baby!’ which, as even Tommy saw, was not a very brilliant reply. It was a singular fact about the clown that the slightest check seemed to take away all his brilliancy.

‘You know you’re not telling the truth now,’ said Barbara, so contemptuously, that the clown began to weep bitterly. ‘She says I don’t speak the truth!’ he complained, ‘and she knows it will be my aunt’s birthday last Toosday!’

‘You great silly thing, what has that to do with it?’ cried Barbara, indignantly. ‘What is there to cry about?’ which very nearly made Tommy quarrel with her, for why couldn’t she be polite to his friend?

However, the clown soon dried his eyes on the tablecloth, and recovered his cheerfulness; and presently he noticed the Times lying folded by Tommy’s papa’s plate.

‘Oh, I say, mister,’ he said, ‘shall I air the newspaper for yer?’

‘Thank you, if you will,’ was the polite reply.

He shook it all out in one great sheet and wrapped it round him, and waddled about in it until Tommy nearly rolled off his seat with delight.

‘When you’ve quite done with it—-‘ his father was saying mildly, as the clown made a great hole in the middle and thrust his head out of it with a bland smile.

‘I’m only just looking through it,’ he explained; ‘you can have it now,’ and he rolled it up in a tight ball and threw it at his host’s head.

Breakfast was certainly not such a dull meal as usual that morning, Tommy thought; but he wished his people would show a little more appreciation, instead of sitting there all stiff and surprised; he was afraid the clown would feel discouraged.