t of [Greek: erchomai] was not [Greek: erchon].

Nicky had said, "I can't help it. If it's not [Greek: erchon] it ought
to be."

Mr. Parsons had replied: "The verb [Greek: erchomai] is irregular." And
Nicky had retorted, in effect, that no verb had any business to be as
irregular as all that. Mr. Parsons had then suggested that Nicky might
know more about the business of irregular verbs if he wrote out the
second aorist of [Greek: erchomai] five and twenty times after tea. As
it was a particularly fine afternoon, an imposition was, Nicky admitted,
a score for Mr. Parsons and a jolly good sell for _him_.

Mr. Parsons had not allowed him to have Jerry on his knee, or even in
the room; and this, Nicky owned further, was but just. It wouldn't have
been nearly so good a punishment if he had had Jerry with him.

Nicky, bowed over his desk, struggled for the perfect legibility which
Mr. Parsons had insisted on, as otherwise the imposition would do him
more harm than good. He was in for it, and the thing must be done
honourably if it was done at all. He had only looked out of the windows
twice to make sure that Boris was asleep under Mr. Parsons' legs. And
once he had left the room to see where Jerry was. He had found him in
the kitchen garden, sitting on a bed of fresh-grown mustard and cress,
ruining it. He sat like a lamb, his forepaws crossed, his head tilted
slightly backwards. His yellow eyes gazed at Nicky with a sweet and
mournful innocence.

Nicky did not hear the voices in the garden.

"I'm awfully sorry, sir," Mr. Parsons was saying. "I can't think how it
could have happened." Mr. Parsons' voice was thick and his face was very
red. "I could have sworn the door was shut."

"Johnnie opened it," said Anthony. He seemed to have caught, suddenly,
one of his bad colds and to be giving it to Mr. Parsons. They were both
in their shirtsleeves, and Anthony carried something in his arms which
he had covered with his coat.

The borzoi stood in front of them. His face had a look of foolish
ecstasy. He stared at Mr. Parsons, and as he stared he panted. There was
a red smear on his white breast; his open jaws still dripped a pink
slaver. It sprayed the ground in front of them, jerked out with
his panting.

"Get away, you damned brute," said Mr. Parsons.

Boris abashed himself; he stretched out his fore legs towards Mr.
Parsons, shook his raised haunches, lifted up his great saw-like muzzle,
and rolled into one monstrous