Philip, now utterly abandoned to the spirit of successful deviltry that intoxicated him beyond control, danced up and down, inviting one, two, and three out of the demoralized ring to share his orgy. They pranced about wildly, shouting snatches of song, pushing each other, deaf to the shocked remonstrance of the teachers, while in their midst, flushed and screaming, Philip and Marantha, satyr and bacchante, leaped high in the air. [Illustration: “_Leaped high in the air._”] In the door there suddenly appeared a woman in a checked apron with a shawl over her head. As the teachers pulled the ring-leaders apart, and the pianist, to a shocked murmur of remonstrance, played Träumerei with the soft pedal down, while a circle of flushed and palpitating “little birds” rocked themselves to sleep with occasional reminiscent giggles and twitters, the woman in the door advanced to a little bird whose chief interest, as he ruffled his gingham plumage, seemed to be to evade an obviously maternal call. “Philup, ye bad boy, where’s the carvin’ knife?” she said angrily. This was too much for the youngest assistant, who went off into something very like hysteria, while the principal tried to explain the inevitable bad effect of shocks and slaps upon the delicate organization of the child. “An’ it’s beggin’ y’r pardon, Miss, but it’s a rale imp o’ Satan he’ll be some days, like, an’ I see it in his eye this marnin’! An imp o’ Satan!” The principal smiled deprecatingly. “We don’t like to hear a child called that,” she said, gently. “Philip has not been so good as usual this morning——” [Illustration: “_Philup, ye bad boy, where’s the carvin’ knife?_”] “Ye may say so!” interrupted Philip’s parent. “An’ whin it’s that way he is, it’s little good soft words’ll do, Miss. He gets it from his father. An’ me not able to cut the mate fer his father’s dinner! He’s a sly young one! It’s a good spankin’ he needs, Miss—an’ he’ll get it, too!” “Take her into the hall with him. Tell her not to spank him. Tell her we’ll punish him. We understand how to make him sorry,” murmured the principal to the youngest assistant, as she turned to quiet the circle. The youngest assistant conducted Philip’s mother, and dragged Philip to the hall. “Now, Philip, tell your mother where you hid the carving knife,” she said invitingly. Philip made a break for the outer door. He was caught and reasoned with. Incidentally his naughtiness in leading the game was mentioned. His mother set her jaw and loosened her shawl. “An’ that’s what ye did, ye bad boy? What did I say the last time I see ye at it? Dirty thrick! You come here to me, sir!” Philip kicked violently and pinched the youngest assistant. Her lips assumed the set expression of the other woman’s. The light of generations of Philistine mothers kindled in her eye. As Philip struggled silently but wildly, the voice of Mrs. R. B. M. Smith, high and resonant, floated through the transom.