"I wonder what Pete is doing?" said Gem, after a pause, wisely making
a diversion in the conversation.

"Oh! burying bones, I suppose," said Tom; "He's always at it. I
believe he'd dig a hole in an iron floor if he was chained up on it.
Hallo, Pete! stop that! You're making too much dust. Do you hear me,
sir? Very well! you'd--a--bet--" When Tom got as far as "bet,"
pronounced in an awful voice, Pete knew that a stick was forthcoming.
He accordingly paused in his digging, his little black nose covered
with yellow earth, and his eyes fixed mournfully on the half-finished
hole. "Let us go and dig up some of his bones and show them to him,"
said Tom; "it always makes him feel so ashamed! I know where they are;
he has his favorite places, and I've often seen him toiling up and
down from one to the other, as important as the man that goes round
with the panorama and jaws at the people."

"What an expression!" said Gem, with an air of superiority; "you boys
are so common!"

"And you girls are so soft!" said Tom. "I'd rather be a boy than a
girl, any day. Come, now!"

But Gem was not inclined to argue this point, so they carried out
their bone-hunting project, much to the discomfiture of Pete Trone,
Esq., who followed behind as if fascinated, watched the disinterment
of each relic with mortified interest, and, when the last was brought
into view, drooped his head and tail, and sought refuge in the
corn-field where he relieved his feelings by burrowing wildly in
twenty different places.