“Crikey!” shrieked Lucille. “That’s done it,” and fled straightway to her room and violent earnest prayer, not for forgiveness but for salvation, from consequences. (What’s the good of Saying your Prayers if you can’t look for Help in Time of Trouble such as this?) The face of Mr. Alastair Kenneth MacIlwraith was not pleasant to see as he pranced forth from the orchid-house, brandishing an implement of his trade. “Ye’ll be needing a wash the day, Mon Sandy, and the Sawbath but fower days syne,” opined Dam, critically observing the moss-and-mud streaked head, face and neck of the raving, incoherent victim of Lucille’s effort. When at all lucid and comprehensible Mr. MacIlwraith was understood to say he’d give his place (and he twanty-twa years in it) to have the personal trouncing of Dam, that Limb, that Deevil, that predestined and fore-doomed Child of Sin, that— Dam pocketed his hands and said but:— “_Havers_, Mon Sandy!” “I’ll tak’ the hide fra y’r bones yet, ye feckless, impident—” Dam shook a disapproving head and said but:— “_Clavers_, Mon Sandy!” “I’ll _see_ ye skelped onny-how—or lose ma job, ye—” More in sorrow than in anger Dam sighed and said but:— “_Hoots_, Mon Sandy!” “I’ll go straight to y’r Grandfer the noo, and if ye’r not flayed alive! Aye! I’ll gang the noo to Himself——” “_Wi’ fower an twanty men, an’ five an’ thairrty pipers_,” suggested Dam in tuneful song. Mr. Alastair Kenneth MacIlwraith did what he rarely did—swore violently. “_Do you think at your age it is right_?” quoted the wicked boy … the exceedingly bad and reprehensible boy. The maddened gardener turned and strode to the house with all his imperfections on his head and face and neck. Taking no denial from Butterson, he forced his way into the presence of his master and clamoured for instant retributive justice—or the acceptance of his resignation forthwith, and him twanty-twa years in the ane place. “Grandfather,” roused from slumber, gouty, liverish, ferociously angry, sent for Dam, Sergeant Havlan, and Sergeant Havlan’s cane. “What’s the meaning of this, Sir,” he roared as Dam, cool, smiling, friendly ever, entered the Sanctum. “What the Devil d’ye mean by it, eh? Wreckin’ my orchid-houses, assaultin’ my servants, waking me up, annoying ME! Seven days C.B.[15] and bread and water, on each count. What d’ye mean by it, ye young hound? Eh? Answer me before I have ye flogged to death to teach ye better manners! Guilty or Not Guilty? and I’ll take your word for it.” [15] Confined to barracks. “The missile, describing a parabola, struck its subjective with fearful impact, Sir,” replied the bad boy imperturbably, misquoting from his latest fiction (and calling it a “parry-bowler,” to “Grandfather’s” considerable and very natural mystification). “_What?_” roared that gentleman, sitting bolt upright in astonishment and wrath. “No. It’s _ob_jective,” corrected Dam. “Yes. With fearful impact. Fearful also were the words of the Mon Sandy.”