“Beaten, my boy!—don’t crow over a woman any more. Stale-mate—with flowers in your hair!”
He put his hand to his head, and felt among his hair, and threw the flowers on the table.
“Would you believe it——!” said the mother, coming into the room from the dairy.
“What?” we all asked.
“Nickie Ben’s been and eaten the sile cloth. Yes! When I went to wash it, there sat Nickie Ben gulping, and wiping the froth off his whiskers.”
George laughed loudly and heartily. He laughed till he was tired. Lettie looked and wondered when he would be done.
“I imagined,” he gasped, “how he’d feel with half a yard of muslin creeping down his throttle.”
This laughter was most incongruous. He went off into another burst. Alice laughed too—it was easy to infect her with laughter. Then the father began—and in walked Nickie Ben, stepping disconsolately—we all roared again, till the rafters shook. Only Lettie looked impatiently for the end. George swept his bare arms across the table, and the scattered little flowers fell broken to the ground.
“Oh—what a shame!” exclaimed Lettie.
“What?” said he, looking round. “Your flowers? Do you feel sorry for them?—you’re too tender hearted; isn’t she, Cyril?”