d that somehow this led us on to Mr.
Stimcoe's delicate health, and this again to the subject of damp
sheets, and this finally to Mrs. Stimcoe's suggesting that Miss
Plinlimmon might perhaps like to have a look at my bedroom.

The bedroom assigned to me opened out of Mrs. Stimcoe's own.
("It will give him a sense of protection. A child feels the first
few nights away from home.") Though small, it was neat, and,
for a boy's wants, amply furnished; nay, it contained at least one
article of supererogation, in the shape of a razor-case on the
dressing-table. Mrs. Stimcoe swept this into her pocket with a turn
of the hand, and explained frankly that her husband, like most
scholars, was absent-minded. Here she passed two fingers slowly
across her forehead. "Even in his walks, or while dressing, his
brain wanders among the deathless compositions of Greece and Rome,
turning them into English metres--all cakes especially"--she must
have meant alcaics--"and that makes him leave things about."

I had fresh and even more remarkable evidence of Mr. Stimcoe's
absent-mindedness two minutes later, when, the sheets having been
duly inspected, we descended to the parlour again; for, happening to
reach the doorway some paces ahead of the two ladies, I surprised him
in the act of drinking down Miss Plinlimmon's sherry.

The interview was scarcely resumed before a mortuary silence fell on
the room, and I became aware that somehow my presence impeded the
discussion of business.

"I think perhaps that Harry would like to run out upon the terrace
and see the view from his new home," suggested Mrs. Stimcoe, with
obvious tact.

I escaped, and went in search of the commodious playground, which I
supposed to lie in the rear of the house; but, reaching a back yard,
I suddenly found myself face to face with three small boys, one
staggering with the weight of a pail, the two others bearing a full
washtub between them; and with surprise saw them set down their
burdens at a distance and come tip-toeing towards me in a single
file, with theatrical gestures of secrecy.

"Hallo!" said I.

"Hist! Be dark as the grave!" answered the leader, in a
stage-whisper. He was a freckly, narrow-chested child, and needed
washing. "You're the new boy," he announced, as though he had
tracked me down in that criminal secret.

"Yes," I owned. "Who are you?"

"We are the Blood-stained Brotherhood of the Pampas, now upon the
trail!"

"Look here," sai