"
"Yet it is more essential than all the rest. Your income, properly
apportioned, would afford--"
Another scream from Lady Augusta. Her son Theodore--Tod,
familiarly--burst into the room, jacketless, his hair entangled,
blood upon his face, and his shirt-sleeves in shreds.
"You rebellious, wicked fright of a boy!" was the salutation of my
lady, when she could recover breath.
"Oh, it's nothing, mamma. Don't bother," replied Master Tod, waving her
off. "I have been going into Pierce, senior, and have polished him off
with a jolly good licking. He won't get me into a row again, I'll bet."
"What row did he get you into?"
"He's a nasty, sneaking tattler, and he took and told something to
Gaunt, and Gaunt put me up for punishment, and I had a caning from old
Pye. I vowed I'd pay Pierce out for it, and I have done it, though he
is a sight bigger than me."
"What was it about?" inquired Mr. Yorke. "The damaged surplice?"
"Damaged surplice be hanged!" politely retorted the young gentleman,
who, in gaining the victory, appeared to have lost his temper. "It was
something concerning our lessons at the third desk, if you must know."
"You might be civil, Tod," said Lady Augusta. "Look at your shirt! Who,
do you suppose, is going to mend that?"
"It can go unmended," responded Master Tod. "I wish it was the fashion
to go without clothes! They are always getting torn."
"I wish it was!" heartily responded my lady.
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