spanned the trout-stream.
At, but not into.
With that extraordinary magnetic attraction which glass has for the missile of the juvenile thrower, the orchid-house, on the opposite side of the path from the pear-tree, drew the errant stone to its hospitable shelter.
Through the biggest pane of glass it crashed, neatly decapitated a rare, choice exotic, the pride of Mr. Alastair Kenneth MacIlwraith, head gardener, released from its hold a hanging basket, struck a large pot (perched high in a state of unstable equilibrium), and passed out on the other side with something accomplished, something done, to earn a long repose.
So much for the stone.
The descending pot lit upon the edge of one side of the big glass aquarium, smashed it, and continued its career, precipitating an avalanche of lesser pots and their priceless contents.
The hanging basket, now an unhung and travelling basket, heavy, iron-ribbed, anciently mossy, oozy of slime, fell with neat exactitude upon the bald, bare cranium of Mr. Alastair Kenneth MacIlwraith, head gardener, and dour, irascible child and woman hater.
"Bull's-eye!" commented Dam—always terse when not composing fairy-tales.
"Crikey!" shrieked Lucille. "That's done it," and fled straightway to her room and violent earnest prayer, not for forgiveness but for salvation, from consequences. (What's the good of Saying your Prayers if you can't look for Help in Time of Trouble such as this?)
The face of Mr. Alastair Kenneth MacIlwraith was not pleasant to see as he pranced forth from the orchid-house, brandishing an implement of his trade.
"Ye'll be needing a wash the day, Mon Sandy, and the Sawbath but fower days syne," opined Dam, critically observing the moss-and-mud streaked head, face and neck of the raving, incoherent victim of Lucille's effort.
When at all lucid and comprehensible Mr. MacIlwraith was understood to say he'd give his place (and he twanty-twa years in it) to have the personal trouncing of Dam, that Limb, that Deevil, that predestined and fore-doomed Child of Sin, that—
Dam pocketed his hands and said but:—
"Havers, Mon Sandy!"
"I'll tak' the hide fra y'r bones yet, ye feckless, impident—"
Dam shook a disapproving head and said but:—
"Clavers, Mon Sandy!"
"I'll see ye skelped onny-how—or lose ma job, ye—"
More in sorrow than in anger Dam sighed and said but:—
"Hoots, Mon Sandy!"
"I'll go straight to y'r Grandfer the noo, and if ye'r not flayed alive! Aye! I'll gang the noo to Himself——"
"Wi' fower an twanty men, an' five an' thairrty pipers," suggested Dam in tuneful song.
Mr. Alastair Kenneth MacIlwraith did what he rarely did—swore violently.
"Do you think at your age it is right?" quoted the wicked boy … the exceedingly bad and reprehensible boy.
The maddened gardener turned and strode to the house with all his imperfections on his head and face and neck.
Taking no denial from Butterson, he forced his way into the presence of his master and clamoured for instant retributive justice—or the acceptance of his resignation forthwith, and him twanty-twa years in the ane place.
"Grandfather," roused from slumber, gouty, liverish, ferociously angry, sent for Dam, Sergeant Havlan, and Sergeant Havlan's cane.
"What's the meaning of this, Sir," he roared as Dam, cool, smiling, friendly ever, entered the Sanctum. "What the Devil d'ye mean by it, eh? Wreckin' my orchid-houses, assaultin' my servants, waking me up, annoying ME! Seven days C.B.15 and bread and water, on each count. What d'ye mean by it, ye young hound? Eh? Answer me before I have ye flogged to death to teach ye better manners! Guilty or Not Guilty? and I'll take your word for it."
"The missile, describing a parabola, struck its subjective with fearful impact, Sir," replied the bad boy imperturbably, misquoting from his latest fiction (and calling it a "parry-bowler," to "Grandfather's" considerable and very natural mystification).
"What?" roared that gentleman, sitting bolt upright in astonishment and wrath.
"No. It's _ob_jective," corrected Dam. "Yes. With fearful impact. Fearful also were the words of the Mon Sandy."
"Grandfather" flushed and smiled a little wryly.
"You'd favour me with pleasantries too, would you? I'll reciprocate to the best of my poor ability," he remarked silkily, and his mouth set in the unpleasant Stukeley grimness, while a little muscular pulse beat beneath his cheek-bone.
"A dozen of the very best, if you please, Sergeant," he added, turning to Sergeant Havlan.
"Coat off, Sir," remarked that worthy, nothing loath, to the boy who could touch him almost as he would with the foil.
Dam removed his Eton jacket, folded his arms, turned his back to the smiter and assumed a scientific arrangement of the shoulders with tense muscles and coyly withdrawn bones. He had been there before….
The dozen were indeed of the Sergeant's best and he was a master. The boy turned not a hair, though he turned a little pale…. His mouth grew extraordinarily like that of his grandfather and a little muscular pulse beat beneath his cheek-bone.
"And what do you think of my pleasantries, my young friend?" inquired Grandfather. "Feeling at all witty now?"
"Havlan is failing a bit, Sir," was the cool reply. "I have noticed it at fencing too—Getting old—or beer perhaps. I scarcely felt him and so did not see or feel the point of your joke."
"Grandfather's" flush deepened and his smile broadened crookedly. "Try and do yourself justice, Havlan," he said. "'Nother dozen. 'Tother way."
Sergeant Havlan changed sides and endeavoured to surpass himself. It was a remarkably sound dozen.
He mopped his brow.
The bad boy did not move, gave no sign, but retained his rigid, slightly hunched attitude, as though he had not counted the second dozen and expected another stroke.
"Let that be a lesson to you to curb your damned tongue," said "Grandfather," his anger evaporating, his pride in the stiff-necked, defiant young rogue increasing.
The boy changed not the rigid, slightly hunched attitude.
"Be pleased to wreck no more of my orchid-houses and to exercise your great wit on your equals and juniors," he added.
Dam budged not an inch and relaxed not a muscle.
"You may go," said "Grandfather"…. "Well—what are you waiting for?"
"I was waiting for Sergeant Havlan to begin,"
