"Should fink he's cleaned by now," said Sandy hopefully. "He was rubbin' himself wiv the leaves off the trees—drippin' wet."
Mr. Bethune opened his front door in response to a low knocking, which at first he did not hear. His eyes had the unseeing, far-away look in them of a man disturbed in a possessing line of thought. The red light in the hall shone on the face of the Bishop, who entered and stood on the doormat for a minute, in such a position as to shield the entrance of the two muddy boys.
"Here is the Guardian for you," he said, "with a very appreciative notice of your paper." Then he went on, "And tell Marjorie to-morrow morning not to be too cross with the state of the boys' clothes. They've been in mischief, but it won't happen again—not the same sort."
The father pretended not to hear the scuffling of small feet.
The two men looked at one another and laughed, and the father pretended not to hear the scuffling of small feet upon the stairs. The Bishop went home with no weight on his conscience—only a little pathetic envy of the man he had just left. Somehow those stifled scufflings up the stairs had gone straight to the depths of his very tender and lonely heart.
"The Bishop knows all 'bout it," excused Sandy sturdily, when confronted by Marjorie the next morning.
"The Bishop knows that all your clothes are in the bath, with both taps running!"
"Well, he does," Sandy repeated, "proberly. He said we were the out-an'-outest dirtiest little grubs he'd ever seen."