Mr. Maynard glanced round the room.
"You rascally children!" he cried; "if you haven't stuck papers on all the vases and bric-a-brac in the room! And on this tree-calf Tennyson, as I live! Oh, my little Maynards! Did anybody ever have such a brood as you?"
Mr. Maynard dropped his head in his hands in apparent despair, but the children caught the amused note in his voice, and the twinkle in his eye, as he glanced at his wife.
"Well, here you are!" he said, as he raised his head again, "for a punishment you must get all those numbers off without injury to the things they're pasted on. This will mean much care and patience, for you must not use water on books or anything that dampness will harm. Those must be picked off in tiny bits with a sharp penknife."
"Oh, we'll do it, Father!" cried Marjorie, "and we'll be just as careful!"
"Indeed you must. You've done enough havoc already. As to the picture, King, we'll say no more about it. You're too big a boy now to be punished; so we'll look upon it as a matter between man and man. I know you appreciate how deeply I regret the loss of that picture, and I well know how sorry you feel about it yourself. The incident is closed."
Mr. Maynard held out his hand to his son, and as King grasped it he felt that his father's manly attitude in the matter was a stronger reproof and a more efficacious lesson to him than any definite punishment could be.
After dinner the three children went to work to remove the pasted numbers.
A few, which were on glass vases, or porcelain, or metal ornaments, could be removed easily by soaking with a damp cloth; but most of them were on plaster casts, or polished wood, or fine book bindings and required the greatest care in handling.
When bed-time came the task was not half finished, and Marjorie's shoulders were aching from close application to the work.