The other end of the bench was occupied by Timothy, sleek and complacent, with a snowy breast and white paws.  After old Robert had taken a mouthful of anything he gave a piece to Timothy, who ate it daintily and purred resonant gratitude.

“You see we’re busy waiting for you, Master,” said old Robert.  “You’re late this evening.  Keep any of the youngsters in?  That’s a foolish way of punishing them, as hard on yourself as on them.  One teacher we had four years ago used to lock them in and go home.  Then he’d go back in an hour and let them out—­if they were there.  They weren’t always.  Tom Ferguson kicked the panels out of the old door once and got out that way.  We put a new door of double plank in that they couldn’t kick out.”

“I stayed in the schoolroom to do some work,” said Eric briefly.

“Well, you’ve missed Alexander Tracy.  He was here to find out if you could play checkers, and, when I told him you could, he left word for you to go up and have a game some evening soon.  Don’t beat him too often, even if you can.  You’ll need to stand in with him, I tell you, Master, for he’s got a son that may brew trouble for you when he starts in to go to school.  Seth Tracy’s a young imp, and he’d far sooner be in mischief than eat.  He tries to run on every new teacher and he’s run two clean out of the school.  But he met his match in Mr. West.  William Tracy’s boys now—­you won’t have a scrap of bother with them.  They’re always good because their mother tells them every Sunday that they’ll go straight to hell if they don’t behave in school.  It’s effective.  Take some preserve, Master.  You know we don’t help things here the way Mrs. Adam Scott does when she has boarders, ‘I s’pose you don’t want any of this—­nor you—­nor you?’ Mother, Aleck says old George Wright is having the time of his life.  His wife has gone to Charlottetown to visit her sister and he is his own boss for the first time since he was married, forty years ago.  He’s on a regular orgy, Aleck says.  He smokes in the parlour and sits up till eleven o’clock reading dime novels.”

“Perhaps I met Mr. Tracy,” said Eric.  “Is he a tall man, with gray hair and a dark, stern face?”

“No, he’s a round, jolly fellow, is Aleck, and he stopped growing pretty much before he’d ever begun.  I reckon the man you mean is Thomas Gordon.  I seen him driving down the road too.  He won’t be troubling you with invitations up, small fear of it.  The Gordons ain’t sociable, to say the least of it.  No, sir!  Mother, pass the biscuits to the Master.”

“Who was the young fellow he had with him?” asked Eric curiously.

“Neil—­Neil Gordon.”

“That is a Scotchy name for such a face and eyes.  I should rather have expected Guiseppe or Angelo.  The boy looks like an Italian.”

“Well, now, you know, Master, I reckon it’s likely he does, seeing that that’s exactly what he is.  You’ve hit the nail square on the head.  Italyun, yes, sir!  Rather too much so, I’m thinking, for decent folks’ taste.”