“It isn’t, Daddy.  Holly Mount’s much the worst.  It’s an awful hill.”

“That,” said Anthony, “is why you’re forbidden to ride down it.  You’ve got to be spanked for this, Nicky.”

“Have I?  All right.  Don’t look so unhappy, Daddy.”

Anthony did much better this time.  Nicky (though he shook with laughter) owned it very handsomely.  And Anthony had handicapped himself again by doing it through the cloth.  He drew the line at shaming Nicky.  (Yet—­could you have shamed his indomitable impudence?)

But he had done it.  He had done it ruthlessly, while the strawberries were still wet on Nicky’s mouth.

And when it was all over Michael, looking for his father, came into the school-room where these things happened.  He said he was awfully sorry, but he’d taken Roger out, and Roger had gone down on his knees and cut himself.

No, it wasn’t on Holly Mount, it was at the turn of the road on the hill past the “Spaniards.”

Anthony paid no attention to Michael.  He turned on Michael’s brother.

“Nicky, what did you do it for?”

“For a rag, of course.  I knew you’d feel such a jolly fool when you found it wasn’t me.”

“You see, Daddy,” he explained later, “you might have known I wouldn’t have let Roger down.  But wasn’t it a ripping sell?”

“What are you to do,” said Anthony, “with a boy like that?”

Frances had an inspiration.  “Do nothing,” she said.  Her tranquillity refused to be troubled for long together.

“Nicky’s right.  It’s no good trying to punish him.  After all, why punish Nicky?  It isn’t as if he was really naughty.  He never does unkind things, or mean things.  And he’s truthful.”

“Horribly truthful.  They all are,” said Anthony.

“Well, then, what does Nicky do?”

“He does dangerous things.”

“He forgets.”

“Nothing more dangerous than forgetting.  We must punish him to make him remember.”

“But it doesn’t make him remember.  It only makes him think us fools.”

“You know what it means?” said Anthony.  “We shall have to send him to school.”

“Not yet,” said Frances.

School was the thing in the future that she dreaded.  Nicky was only nine, and they were all getting on well with Mt.  Parsons.  Anthony knew that to send Nicky to school now would be punishing Frances, not Nicky.  The little fiend would only grin in their faces if they told him he was going to school.

It was no use trying to make impressions on Nicky.  He was as hard as nails.  He would never feel things.

Perhaps, Frances thought, it was just as well.

V

“I do think it was nice of Jane,” said Nicky, “to have Jerry.”

“And I do think it was nice of me,” said Dorothy, “to give him to you.”

Jane was Dorothy’s cat; therefore her kittens were Dorothy’s.