produced a decanter of sherry—­a wine which Miss Plinlimmon abominated—­and poured her out a glassful, with the remark that it had been twice round the world; that Miss Plinlimmon supposed vaguely “the same happened to a lot of things in a seaport like Falmouth;” and that somehow this led us on to Mr. Stimcoe’s delicate health, and this again to the subject of damp sheets, and this finally to Mrs. Stimcoe’s suggesting that Miss Plinlimmon might perhaps like to have a look at my bedroom.

The bedroom assigned to me opened out of Mrs. Stimcoe’s own.  ("It will give him a sense of protection.  A child feels the first few nights away from home.”) Though small, it was neat, and, for a boy’s wants, amply furnished; nay, it contained at least one article of supererogation, in the shape of a razor-case on the dressing-table.  Mrs. Stimcoe swept this into her pocket with a turn of the hand, and explained frankly that her husband, like most scholars, was absent-minded.  Here she passed two fingers slowly across her forehead.  “Even in his walks, or while dressing, his brain wanders among the deathless compositions of Greece and Rome, turning them into English metres—­all cakes especially”—­she must have meant alcaics—­“and that makes him leave things about.”

I had fresh and even more remarkable evidence of Mr. Stimcoe’s absent-mindedness two minutes later, when, the sheets having been duly inspected, we descended to the parlour again; for, happening to reach the doorway some paces ahead of the two ladies, I surprised him in the act of drinking down Miss Plinlimmon’s sherry.

The interview was scarcely resumed before a mortuary silence fell on the room, and I became aware that somehow my presence impeded the discussion of business.

“I think perhaps that Harry would like to run out upon the terrace and see the view from his new home,” suggested Mrs. Stimcoe, with obvious tact.

I escaped, and went in search of the commodious playground, which I supposed to lie in the rear of the house; but, reaching a back yard, I suddenly found myself face to face with three small boys, one staggering with the weight of a pail, the two others bearing a full washtub between them; and with surprise saw them set down their burdens at a distance and come tip-toeing towards me in a single file, with theatrical gestures of secrecy.

“Hallo!” said I.

“Hist!  Be dark as the grave!” answered the leader, in a stage-whisper.  He was a freckly, narrow-chested child, and needed washing.  “You’re the new boy,” he announced, as though he had tracked me down in that criminal secret.

“Yes,” I owned.  “Who are you?”

“We are the Blood-stained Brotherhood of the Pampas, now upon the trail!”

“Look here,” said I, staring down at him, “that’s nonsense!”

“Oh, very well,” he answered promptly; “then we’re the ’Backward Sons of Gentlemen’—­that’s down in the prospectus—­and we’re fetching water for Mother Stimcoe, because the turncock cut off the company’s water this morning!  See?  But you won’t blow the gaff on the old girl, will you?”