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The next morning Oswald awoke early. The refreshing beams of the morning sun shone on his narrow, white bed and on the sleeping forms of his dear little brothers, and Denny, who had got the pillow on top of his head and was snoring like a kettle when it sings. Oswald could not remember at first what was the matter with him, and then he remembered the Wouldbegoods, and wished he hadn’t. He felt at first as if there was nothing you could do, and even hesitated to buzz a pillow at Denny’s head. But he soon saw that this could not be. So he chucked his boot and caught Denny right in the waistcoat part, and thus the day began more brightly than he had expected.

Oswald had not done anything out of the way good the night before, except that when no one was looking he polished the brass candlestick in the girls’ bedroom with one of his socks. And he might just as well have let it alone, for the servants cleaned it again with the other things in the morning, and he could never find the sock afterwards. There were two servants. One of them had to be called Mrs. Pettigrew instead of Jane and Eliza like others. She was cook and managed things.

After breakfast Albert’s uncle said:

“I now seek the retirement of my study. At your peril violate my privacy before 1.30 sharp. Nothing short of bloodshed will warrant the intrusion, and nothing short of man–or rather boy–slaughter shall avenge it.”

So we knew he wanted to be quiet, and the girls decided that we ought to play out of doors so as not to disturb him; we should have played out of doors anyhow on a jolly fine day like that.

But as we were going out Dicky said to Oswald:

“I say, come along here a minute, will you?”

So Oswald came along, and Dicky took him into the other parlor and shut the door, and Oswald said:

“Well, spit it out: what is it?” He knows that is vulgar, and he would not have said it to any one but his own brother.

Dicky said:

“It’s a pretty fair nuisance. I told you how it would be.”

And Oswald was patient with him, and said:

“What is? Don’t be all day about it.”

Dicky fidgeted about a bit, and then he said:

“Well, I did as I said. I looked about for something useful to do. And you know that dairy window that wouldn’t open–only a little bit like that? Well, I mended the catch with wire and whipcord and it opened wide.”

“And I suppose they didn’t want it mended,” said Oswald. He knows but too well that grown-up people sometimes like to keep things far different from what we would, and you catch it if you try to do otherwise.

“I shouldn’t have minded that,” Dicky said, “because I could easily have taken it all off again if they’d only said so. But the sillies went and propped up a milk-pan against the window. They never took the trouble to notice I had mended it. So the wretched thing pushed the window open all by itself directly they propped it up, and it’s tumbled through into the moat, and they are most awfully waxy. All the men are out in the fields, and they haven’t any spare milk-pans. If I were a farmer, I must say I wouldn’t stick at an extra milk-pan or two. Accidents must happen sometimes. I call it mean.”

Dicky spoke in savage tones. But Oswald was not so unhappy, first because it wasn’t his fault, and next because he is a far-seeing boy.

“Never mind,” he said, kindly. “Keep your tail up. We’ll get the beastly milk-pan out all right. Come on.”

He rushed hastily to the garden and gave a low signifying whistle, which the others know well enough to mean something extra being up.