head," said Aunt M'riar,
referring back to the fracas of the morning, "all I can say is, I'm
sorry you took Micky off him." From which it appeared that this culprit
was not unknown. Indeed, Aunt M'riar was able to add that Widow Druitt
his mother couldn't call her soul her own for that boy's goings on.

"He'd got a tidy good punishing afore I got hold of the scruff of my
man's trousers," said Uncle Mo, who seemed well contented with the
culprit's retribution; and, of course, _he_ knew. "Besides," he added,
"he had to get away over them bottles." That is to say, the wall-top,
bristling with broken glass. Humanity had paved the way for the enemy's
retreat. Uncle Mo added inquiry as to how the freckly one's behaviour to
his family had come to the knowledge of Sapps Court.

"You can see acrost from Mrs. Prichard's. He do lead 'em all a life,
that boy! Mrs. Burr she saw him pour something down his sister's back
when she was playing scales. Ink, she says, by the look. But, of course,
it's a way off from here, over to Mrs. Druitt's."

"Oh--she's the one that plays the pyanner. Same tune all through--first
up, then down! Good sort of tune to go to sleep to!"

"'Tain't a tune, Mo. It's _scales_. She's being learned how. One day
soon she'll have a tune to play. An easy tune. Mrs. Prichard says _she_
could play several tunes before she was that girl's age. Then she hadn't
no brother to werrit her. I lay that made a difference." Aunt M'riar
went on to mention other atrocities ascribed by Mrs. Burr to the freckly
brother. His behaviour to his musical sister had, indeed, been a matter
of serious concern to the upstairs tenants, whose window looked directly
upon the back of Mrs. Druitt's, who took in lodgers in the main street
where Dave had met with his accident.

The boy Michael was suffering from enforced leisure on the day of this
occurrence, as his father's cart had met with an accident, and was under
repair. Its owner had gone to claim compensation personally from the
butcher whose representative had ridden him down; not, he alleged, by
misadventure, but from a deep-rooted malignity against all poor but
honest men struggling for a livelihood. No butcher, observe, answers
this description. Butchers are a class apart, whose motives are
extortion, grease, and blood. They wallow in the last with joy, and
practise the first with impunity. If they can get a chance to run over
you, they'll do it! Trust them for that! Nevertheless,