“There isn’t many pieces left of him,” calmly observed Silas.
Mrs Pardue disappeared up the ladder, from which region presently came the sound of castigation, with its attendant howls from the sufferer, while Silas, having provided himself with a satisfactory cinder, proceeded, in defiance of Penuel’s entreaties, to sketch a rather clever study of Mrs Tabitha Hall in the middle of his mother’s newly washed table-cloth.
“Eh, Pen, you’ll never do no good wi’ no lads!” lamented Mrs Bradbridge, rising to depart. “Nought never does lads a bit o’ good save thrashing ’em. I’m truly thankful mine’s both maids. They’re a sight o’ trouble, lads be. Good even.”
As Mistress Bradbridge went out, Mr Pardue was stepping in.
“Silas, let be!” said his father quietly; and Silas made a face, but pocketed the cinder for future use. “Pen, where’s Mother?”
Mrs Pardue answered for herself by coming down the ladder.
“There! I’ve given it Esdras: now, Silas, ’tis thy turn.”
No pussy cat could have worn an aspect of more exquisite meekness than Mr Silvanus Pardue at that moment, having dexterously twitched a towel so as to hide the work of art on which he had been engaged the moment before.
“I’ve done nothing, Mother,” he demurely observed, adding with conscious virtue, “I never tear my clothes.”
“You’ve made a pretty hole in your manners, my master,” replied his mother. “Nicholas, what thinkest a lad to deserve that nicks Mistress Hall with the name of ‘Old Tabby’?”