“They’se so clean and nicey—­no horrid ole fleas ’n them now.  AREN’t you glad?  You can let Flibberty go on your bed now, and Kitsy Blackeye is—–­”

Poor Baby never finished her speech.  She had a confused idea of hearing a little “swear-word” from her father, of being shaken in a most ungentle fashion and put outside the stable, while the unfortunate animals were dried and treated with great consideration.

But the worst was yet to come, and the results were so exceedingly bad that the young Woolcots determined never again to assume virtues that they had not.

Bunty, of course, desired to help the cause as strongly as the others, and to that end his first action was to go into his bedroom and perform startling ablutions with his face, neck, and hands.  Then he took his soap-shiny countenance and red, much bescrubbed hands downstairs, and sunned himself under his father’s very nose, hoping to attract favourable comment.

But he was bidden irritably “go and play,” and saw he would have to find fresh means of appeasement.

He wandered into the study, with vague thoughts of tidying the tidy bookshelves; but Pip vas there, surrounded with books and whittling a stick for a catapult, so he went out again.  Then he climbed the stairs and explored his father’s bedroom and dressing-room.  In the latter there was a wide field for his operations.  A full-dress uniform was lying across a chair, and it struck Bunty the gold buttons were looking less bright than they should, so he spent a harmless quarter of an hour in polishing them up.  Next, he burnished some spurs, which also was harmless.  Then he east about for fresh employment.

There was quite a colony of dusty boots in one corner of the room, and there was a great bottle of black, treacly looking varnish on the mantelpiece.  Bunty conceived the brilliant idea of cleaning the whole lot and standing them in a neat row to meet his father’s delighted eyes.  He found a handkerchief on the floor, of superfine cambric, though dirty, poured upon it a liberal allowance of varnish, and attacked the first pair.

A bright polish rewarded him, for they were patent leather ones; but the next and the next and the next would not shine, however hard he rubbed.  There was a step on the stair, the firm, well-known step of his father, and he paused a moment with a look of conscious virtue on his small shiny face.

But it fled all at once, and a look of horror replaced it.  He had stuck the bottle on a great armchair for convenience, as he was sitting on the floor, and now he noticed it had fallen on its side and a black, horrid stream was issuing from its neck.

And it was the chair with the uniform on, and one of the sleeves was soaked with the stuff, and the beautiful white shirt that lay there, too, waiting for a button, was sticky, horrible!  Bunty gave a wild, terrified look round the room for some place to efface himself, but there were no sheltering corners or curtains, and there was not time to get into the bedroom and under the bed.  Near the window was a large-sized medicine chest, and in despair Bunty crushed himself into it, his legs huddled up, his head between his knees, and an ominous rattle of displaced bottles in his ears.  The next minute his father was in the room.