somebody come!  I wonder who 'tis?  Why, I do believe it's a stranger.  Jimmy” (that's one of the children) “run and tell Lize to put on another plate for dinner.” Everybody made a rush for the front door, because, of course, a stranger don't come _every_ year, and so he lays over the yaller-fever, for interest, when he does come.  Tom was over the stile and starting for the house; the wagon was spinning up the road for the village, and we was all bunched in the front door.  Tom had his store clothes on, and an audience--and that was always nuts for Tom Sawyer.  In them circumstances it warn't no trouble to him to throw in an amount of style that was suitable.  He warn't a boy to meeky along up that yard like a sheep; no, he come ca'm and important, like the ram.  When he got a-front of us he lifts his hat ever so gracious and dainty, like it was the lid of a box that had butterflies asleep in it and he didn't want to disturb them, and says: “Mr. Archibald Nichols, I presume?” “No, my boy,” says the old gentleman, “I'm sorry to say 't your driver has deceived you; Nichols's place is down a matter of three mile more. Come in, come in.” Tom he took a look back over his shoulder, and says, “Too late--he's out of sight.” “Yes, he's gone, my son, and you must come in and eat your dinner with us; and then we'll hitch up and take you down to Nichols's.” “Oh, I _can't_ make you so much trouble; I couldn't think of it.  I'll walk--I don't mind the distance.” “But we won't _let_ you walk--it wouldn't be Southern hospitality to do it. Come right in.” “Oh, _do_,” says Aunt Sally; “it ain't a bit of trouble to us, not a bit in the world.  You must stay.  It's a long, dusty three mile, and we can't let you walk.  And, besides, I've already told 'em to put on another plate when I see you coming; so you mustn't disappoint us.  Come right in and make yourself at home.” So Tom he thanked them very hearty and handsome, and let himself be persuaded, and come in; and when he w