To-night he has certainly entered into the boys.

He often does a little, but this evening he is holding a great and mighty carnival among them.

While father's strong, hard voice vibrates in a loud, dull monotone through the silent room, they are engaged in a hundred dumb yet ungodly antics behind his back.
Algernon has thrust his head far out between the rungs of his chair-back, and affects to be unable to withdraw it again, making movements of simulated suffocation.

The Brat is stealthily walking on his knees across the space that intervenes between them to Barbara, with intent, as I too well know, of unseemly pinchings.

If father unbutton his eyes, or move his head one barley-corn, we are all dead men.