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“I shouldn’t do that if I were you,” said Parson Jack, rapping the bowl of his pipe against his boot-heel.

“I don’t suppose you would,” retorted the small boy. “But then there’s some parsons wouldn’t smoke a clay.”

Before Parson Jack could discover a repartee the door opened and a young man with a weak chin and bright yellow boots came out laughing, followed by a good-looking girl, who turned on the step to close the door behind her. Although in black, she was outrageously over-dressed. An enormous black feather nodded above her “picture” hat, and with one hand she held up her skirt, revealing a white embroidered petticoat deplorably stained with mud.

In the act of turning she caught sight of the small boy, and at once began to rate him.

“Haven’t I told you fifty times to let that dog alone? Go indoors this instant and get yourself cleaned! For my part, I don’t know what Tillotson means, letting you out of school so early.”

“I haven’t been to school,” the boy announced, catching at a dirty sheet of newspaper which fluttered against the railing, and nonchalantly folding it into a cocked hat.

“Your mumps have been all right for a week. There’s not the slightest risk of infection, and you know it. You don’t tell me you’ve persuaded mother–“

“I haven’t said a word to her,” the boy interrupted. “It isn’t mumps; it’s these breeches. If you can’t find time to darn ’em, I’m not going to school till somebody can.”

The young man tittered, and the girl–with a toss of her head and a glance at Parson Jack, who was pretending to tie his boot-lace–accepted defeat.

“Where did you pick up that puppy?” asked Parson Jack, after watching the pair up the street.

“What’s that to you?”

“Nothing at all; only I’m a judge of wire-haired terriers, and he has a touch of breed somewhere. Well, if you won’t answer that question, I’ll try you with another. Is that Gertrude–or Ada?” He nodded up the street.

“That’s Ada. Gertrude is indoors, trimming a hat. You seem to know a heap about us.”

“Not much; but I’m going to call and find out more if I can. You’re Richard, I suppose?”

“Dick, for short. Ring the bell, if you like, and I’ll run round and open the door. Only don’t say I didn’t warn you.” This sounded like an absurd echo of the lawyer, and set Parson Jack smiling. “We don’t subscribe to anything, or take any truck in parsons; and the slavey has a whitlow on her finger, and mother’s having fits over the cooking. But come in, if you want to.”

“Thank you, I will.”

While Parson Jack ascended to the front door and rang at the bell, Dick skipped down the area steps, and presently opened to him with a mock start of surprise. “Beg your pardon,” said he, “but I took you for the rates, or the broker’s man.” He winked as he ushered in the visitor. The running click of a sewing-machine sounded above stairs, and up from the basement floated an aroma of fried onions, and filled the passage.

“First turning to the right!” admonished the boy, and stepping past him, to the head of the basement stairs, called down: “Mother! I say, mother, here’s a gentleman to see you!”

“Then,” came the answer, “tell Gerty to step down and find out what he wants. I’m busy.”

Parson Jack discreetly shut the door, and fell to studying the not over-clean drawing-room, which was tricked out with muslin draperies, cheap Japanese fans, photographs–mostly of officers in the uniform of the Royal Marines–and such artistic trifles as painted tambourines, sabots, drain-pipes, and milking-stools. In one wicker-chair–the wicker daubed with royal-red enamel–lay a banjo; in another was curled a sleeping terrier–indubitable mother of the puppy outside. Near the door stood a piano with a comic opera score on the music-rest, open at No. 12, “I’m a Cheery Fusileery–O!” and on its rosewood top an ash-tray full of cigarette-ends and a shaded lamp the base of which needed wiping.