you won't get a-nigh him for weeks, not a man
Jack of you! Dear, dear, dear, you men--a set of interferin',
mutton-headed creatures!

'He's an unregenerate youth--that boy of yours, ma'am.'

'Is he, indeed?' Mrs. Haddon's handsome face flushed, and she squared her
trim little figure. 'Was he that when he went down the broken winze to
poor Ben Holden? Was he that when he brought little Kitty Green and her
pony out of the burnin' scrub? Was he all a little villain when he found
you trapped in the cleft of a log under the mount there, when the Stream
men wouldn't stir a foot to seek you?

During this outburst Shine had twisted his boots in all directions, and
examined them minutely from every point of view.

'No, no, ma'am,' he said, 'not all bad, not at all; but--ah, the--ah,
influence of a father is missing, Mrs. Haddon.'

'That's my boy's misfortune, Mr. Superintendent.'

'It--it might be removed.'

'Eh? What's that you say?'

The widow eyed her visitor sharply, but he was squirming over his
unfortunate feet, and apparently suffering untold agonies on their
account.

'The schoolmaster must be supported, missus,' he said hastily.
'Discipline, you know. Boys have to be mastered.'

'To be sure; but you men, you don't know how. My Dick is the best boy in
the school, sometimes.'

'Sometimes, ma'am, yes.'

'Yes, sometimes, and would be always if you men had a pen'orth of ideas.
Boys should be driven sometimes and sometimes coaxed.'

'And how'd you coax him what played wag under the very school, fought
there, an' then broke out of the place like a burgerler?

'I know, I know--_that's bad; but it's been a fearful tryin' day, an'
allowances should be made.'

'Then, if he comes home you'll give him over to be--ah, dealt with?'

'Certainly, superintendent; I am not a fool, an' I want my boy taught.
But don't you men go chasm' those lads; they'll just enjoy it, an' you'll
do no good. You leave Dickie to me, an' I'll have him home here in two
shakes. Dickie's a high-spirited boy, an' full o' the wild fancies of
boys. He's done this sort o' thing before. Run away from home once to be
a sailor, an' slep' for two nights in a windy old tree not a hundred
yards from his own comfortable bed, imaginin' he was what he called on
the foretop somethin'. But I know well enough how to work on his
feelings.'

'A father, ma'am, would be the savin' o' that lad.'

Mrs. Haddon dropped her work again and her dark eyes snapped;