The boy shamefacedly retraced his steps and presented himself on the piazza. His shoes and stockings were covered with mud; the frills on his shirt were torn and dirty; one eye was closed.
"Why, my darling child!" cried his mother, her listless, detached air giving place to one of acute concern, "you've been in an accident!"
She had flown to him and enveloped him, mud and all, in her gauzy embrace—an embrace from which Mac struggled to escape.
"I'm all right," he insisted impatiently. "Those kids back of the cathedral got to bothering us, and we—"
"You mean those rowdies in the alley of whom Mason is always complaining?" demanded the bishop, sternly.
"Yes, sir. They were throwing rocks and stepping on the new walk—"
"And you were helping the janitor keep them out?" broke in Mrs. Clarke. "Isn't it an outrage, Bishop, that these children can't go to their choir practice without being attacked by those dreadful ruffians?"
"You are quite sure you boys weren't to blame?" asked Mr. Clarke.
"Now, Father!" protested his wife, "how can you? When Mac has just told us he was helping the janitor?"
"It is no new thing, Mr. Clarke," said the bishop, solemnly shaking his head. "We have had to contend with that disreputable element back of us for years. On two occasions I have had to complain to the city authorities. A very bad neighborhood, I am told, very bad indeed."