e
one's eyes off of anything for half-a-quarter of a minute, and there
would have to be something done about it. He who analyses this remark
may find it hard to account for its having been so intelligible at first
hearing.

But Mrs. Tapping and Mrs. Riley--who were present--were not analytical,
and when Mr. Bartlett inquired suspiciously if any of them boys belonged
to either of you ladies, one of the latter replied with a
counter-inquiry:--"What harrum have the young boys done ye, thin,
misther? Shure it's been a playzin' little enjoyment forr thim afther
school-hours!" Which revealed the worst part of Mr. Bartlett's character
and his satellite John's, a sullen spirit of revenge, more marked
perhaps in the man than in the master; for while the former merely
referred to the fact that he would know them again if he saw them, and
would then give them something to recollect him by, the latter said he
would half-skin some of 'em alive if he could just lay hands on 'em. But
the subject dropped, and Mr. Bartlett loaded up his truck and departed.
And was presently in collision with the authorities for leaving it
standing outside the Wheatsheaf, while he and John consumed a
half-a-pint in at the bar.

When the coast was quite clear, the offenders felt their way back, not
disguising their satisfaction at their transgression. Mrs. Riley seemed
to think that she ought to express the feeling the Bench would have had,
had it been present. For she said: "You'll be laying yoursilves open to
pinalties, me boys, if ye don't kape your hands off other payple's
thrucks, and things that don't consurrun ye. So lave thim be, and attind
to your schooling, till you're riddy for bid." Dave's blue eyes dwelt
doubtfully on the speaker, expressing their owner's uncertainty whether
she was in earnest or not. Indeed, her sympathy with the offenders
disqualified her for judicial impressiveness. Anyhow, Dave remained
unimpressed, to judge by his voice as he vanished down the Court to
narrate this pleasant experience to Uncle Moses. It was on Saturday
afternoon that this took place. Have you ever noticed the strange
fatality which winds up all building jobs on Saturday? Only not _this_
Saturday--always next Saturday. It is called by some "making a clean
finish."

Old Mrs. Prichard lent herself to the fiction that she would rejoice
when the builders had made this clean finish. But she only did so to
meet expectation half-way. She had no such eagernes