Fishblate—two names that could never by any possibility sound harmonious.
"What is the matter now?" screamed Miss Kling, appearing at her door with the query.
"Have you hurt yourself?" Nattie asked, as she went down to where the hero of the catastrophe sat on the bottom stair, ruefully rubbing his elbow, but who now picked up his hat and the fire-bucket, and rose to explain.
"It's nothing—nothing at all, you know!" he said, looking upward, and bowing to the voices; "I caught my foot in the rug, and"
"Did you tear the rug?" here anxiously interrupted the listening Mrs. Simonson, suddenly appearing at the banisters; not that she felt for her lodger less, but for the rug more, a distinction arising from that constant struggle with the "ways and means."
"Oh, no! I assure you, there was no damage done to the rug—or fire-bucket," the victim responded, reassuringly, and in perfect good faith. "Or myself," he added modestly, as if the latter was scarce worth speaking of. "I—I am used to it, you know," reverting to his usual expression in accidents of all descriptions.
"I declare I don't know what you will do
