ack skulls
sprinkled over a yellow background. Some parts hung flat and limp as if
upon a scarecrow; others pulsed, like a fire-hose in action, with the
pressure of flesh compressed beneath, while at other points they bulged
pneumatically in little foot-balls. The right leg dropped to the ankle;
the left stopped discouraged, a few inches below the knee. The seams
looked like the putty mountain chains of the geography class. As the
Maestro strode along he threw rapid glances at his handiwork, and it was
plain that the emotions that moved him were somewhat mixed in character.
His face showed traces of a puzzled diffidence, as that of a man who has
come in sack-coat to a full-dress function; but after all it was
satisfaction that predominated, for after this heroic effort he had
decided that Victory had at last perched upon his banners.

And it really looked so for a time. Isidro stayed at school at least
during that first day of his trousered life. For when the Maestro, later
in the forenoon paid a visit to the annex, he found the Assistant in
charge standing disconcerted before the urchin who, with eyes indignant
and hair perpendicular upon the top of his head, was evidently holding
to his side of the argument with his customary energy.

Isidro was trouserless. Sitting rigid upon his bench, holding on with
both hands as if in fear of being removed, he dangled naked legs to the
sight of who might look.

"Que barbaridad!" murmured the Assistant in limp dejection.

But Isidro threw at him a look of black hatred. This became a tense,
silent plea for justice as it moved up for a moment to the Maestro's
face, and then it settled back upon its first object in frigid
accusation.

"Where are your trousers, Isidro?" asked the Maestro.

Isidro relaxed his convulsive grasp of the bench with one hand, canted
himself slightly to one side just long enough to give an instantaneous
view of the trousers, neatly folded and spread between what he was
sitting with and what he was sitting on, then swung back with the
suddenness of a kodak-shutter, seized his seat with new determination,
and looked eloquent justification at the Maestro.

"Why will you not wear them?" asked the latter.

"He says he will not get them dirty," said the Assistant, interpreting
the answer.

"Tell him when they are dirty he can go down to the river and wash
them," said the Maestro.

Isidro pondered over the suggestion for two silent minutes. The prospect