And Celie, blushing for her sex, believed him and condoled. For, next to Cleg, she had a weakness for Cleaver's boy. He was so good-looking. "Wait till they come the nicht!" said Cleaver's boy, darkly. It was the hour of the vesper writing lesson. Cleaver's boy was seated at the long desk which Mr. Donald Iverach had found, as he said, "about the premises"—but for which he had, curiously enough, previously paid out of his own pocket. Cleaver's boy had his head close down to the paper. His elbows were spread-eagled over the table. His shoulders were squared with determination, and his whole pose gave token of the most complete absorption and studious intentness. He was writing the line, "Kindness to dumb animals is a sign of nobility of character." As his pen traced the curves, his tongue was elaborating the capitals, so exactly that you could almost tell by watching the tip whether Cleaver's boy was writing a K or an N. This kind of expressive caligraphy has not been sufficiently studied. But Cleaver's boy was undoubtedly a master of it. There came angry voices at the door. "What are you doin' here? I tell ye he's my chap!" said a voice sharp and shrill. "It's a black lee. I tell ye he's naething o' the kind!" said another, yet louder and rougher. Sue Murphy and Sal Mackay were at it again. So said the Society of the Knuckle Dusters as it winked amicably and collectively to itself. Celie Tennant was just looking over the copybook of Cleaver's boy. As she stood behind him, she could see the scarlet swiftly rising to his neck and brow. Adonis was becoming distinctly annoyed. It was going to be a rough night for Venuses. "I tell ye it was only on Saturday nicht that he knocked my bonnet off my head an' kickit it alang the street—an' ye will hae the impidence to say after that that he is your lad!" It was the voice of Sue Murphy which made this proud declaration. "That nocht ava', ye Irish besom," retorted Sal Mackay; "yestreen nae farther gane, he pu'ed a handfu' o' the hair oot o' my heid. Aye, and rubbit my face wi' a clabber o' glaur, forbye!" It was the last straw. Cleaver's boy rose to his feet with a look of stern and righteous determination on his face. The assembled Knuckle Dusters watched him eagerly. Celie stood aghast, fearing that murder might be done, in the obvious endeavour Cleaver's boy was now about to make, to excel all his previous records in the art of love-making, as practised in the Sooth Back and the Tinklers' Lands. He walked slowly to the corner of the store room, where on a little bench stood two very large water cans of tin, painted a dark blue. They were the property of the club and contained the drinking water for the evening. They had just been filled.