ghtning express. It appears that before
school in the morning Geordie had "trusted" a few leading spirits
(Taulbee and Philip among the cottage boys, Lige Munn and Harl Drake
among the day-pupils) with sets of marbles, giving them three days' time
in which to pay him the ten cents a set. At noon playtime I was
surrounded by a mob of my boys, loudly demanding extra work, while the
woodwork teacher was beseiged by day-pupils of all sizes and ages,
demanding extra jobs in the shop.

When Hen told me before supper that all the "day-schools" as well as the
cottage boys were buying "marvles" from Geordie, I said, "Oh, you must
be mistaken. Geordie has not more than the dozen sets he traded you boys
out of after Christmas, and possibly a few others collected before."

Hen looked wise. "You never knowed he had a marvle-mill a-running back
yander in the branch, ever sence he got the stable-job?" he said.

"What in the world?" I demanded.

"Right there under the stable-lot fence, where the branch falls into
Perilous, he took'n made him four little troughs, that takes streams out
and draps 'em into four holes he's got hollered out in a flat rock
underneath. All he's got to do is to put a chunk of sandstone in every
hole, and the water keeps it a-whirling till first thing it knows it's a
pure marvle; and then he puts in another chunk. He makes him twelve
marvles a day thataway--it haint no trouble to drap in the chunks whilst
he's watering the nags--and he's been at it stiddy for six weeks. I
kotch him at it one time, and he give me a set not to tell t'other boys.
Marvles! Gee-oh, he's got 'em!"

[Illustration: "'I kotch him at it one time.'"]

_Saturday Night._

Philip carries on his siege with characteristic vigor, leaving nothing
undone to win the citadel of Dilsey's difficult affections, and enduring
as best he may the painful moments caused by her too-great particularity
in trifles. This morning I passed down through the back yard while the
washing was in full progress. The girls were working and singing at
their tubs under the big sycamore. A little to one side, Philip was
energetically turning the wringer for Dilsey. He paused, as I passed, to
blow his nose after the good old fashion of our first parents, to be
cruelly reminded by her, "I allus blow _mine_ on a handkerchief!"

_Tuesday._

Blant's declaration that he has "shot his last shoot" has become widely
known, and occasions a sensation. The boys