They were an even more ridiculous couple than their kind usually are.  And, when the gentleman squeezed the lady, she laughed so foolishly that Archie Pennybet was within an ace of forgetting himself and heartily laughing too.  It was worse still, when they began the pernicious practice of “rubbing noses.”  For the operation was so new and unexpected, and withal so congenial to Archie, that he risked discovery by craning forward to study it.  He watched with jaws parted in a wide gape of amazement, and then said to himself:  “Well, I’m damned!” There is but one step (I am told) from rubbing noses to the real business of the kiss.  And it was when the gentleman brought the lady’s lips into contact with his own, and the peculiar sound was heard in the lane, that Mr. Pennybet’s moment had come.

“Hem!  Hem!  Oh, I say!” he suggested loudly, and sought safety by slipping rapidly down his side of the wall, scratching his hands and bare knees as he fell.

This fine triumph had been at a cost.  Archie surveyed himself.  His new suit was clearly disreputable.  And, in his mother’s eyes, the one crime punishable by whipping was to make a new suit disreputable.  The more he studied the extent of the damage, the more he felt convinced that, in the expiation of this potty little offence, his body would be commandeered to play a painful and rather passive part.

His brain, therefore, worked rapidly and well.  It was more than possible, thought he, that his mother’s sympathy could be induced to exceed her indignation.  She was really an affectionate woman; and this was the line to go upon.  So he squeezed the scratches in his knees to expedite the issue of blood, and bravely entered the house.

“Mother,” he called, introducing suitable pathos into his tones, “Mother, I’ve fallen all down the wall!”

This effective opening, should it seem successful, it was his intention to follow up with seasonable allusions to his birthday.  But alas! one glimpse of Mrs. Pennybet’s face when she saw his suit, showed him the folly of remaining on the scene, and with the speed of a fawn, he was out in the garden, and up an elm tree, swaying about like a crow’s nest.  And there, a minute later, was Mrs. Pennybet standing below, her skirts held up in one hand, a small cane in the other.

“Come down, Archie,” she said.  “Come down.”

“Not a bit of it,” replied her son.  “You come up!”

* * * * *

At least Mrs. Pennybet, a vivacious raconteuse, always declared to me that such was his reply.  I do not trust these mothers, however, and regard it as a piece of her base embroidery.  At any rate, it is certain that her effort to secure Archie for punishment was quite unsuccessful.  And, an hour afterwards, a small figure came quietly down the trunk of the tree, and, entering the room where his mother was, sat quickly in a big arm-chair, and held on tightly to its arms.  This position prevented access to that particular area of Archie Pennybet, which, in the view of himself, his mother, and all sound conservatives, must be exposed, if corporal punishment is to be the standard thing.  Mrs. Pennybet, good woman, admitted her defeat, and kissed him repeatedly, while he still held himself tight in his chair.