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."

"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."

"Grandfather" flushed and smiled a little wryly.

"You'd favour _me_ with pleasantries too, would you? I'll reciprocate
to the best of my poor ability," he remarked silkily, and his mouth
set in the unpleasant Stukeley grimness, while a little muscular pulse
beat beneath his cheek-bone.

"A dozen of the very best, if you please, Sergeant," he added, turning
to Sergeant Havlan.

"Coat off, Sir," remarked that worthy, nothing loath, to the boy who
could touch him almost as he would with the foil.

Dam removed his Eton jacket, folded his arms, turned hi