“Leaped high in the air.”
In the door there suddenly appeared a woman in a checked apron with a shawl over her head. As the teachers pulled the ring-leaders apart, and the pianist, to a shocked murmur of remonstrance, played Träumerei with the soft pedal down, while a circle of flushed and palpitating “little birds” rocked themselves to sleep with occasional reminiscent giggles and twitters, the woman in the door advanced to a little bird whose chief interest, as he ruffled his gingham plumage, seemed to be to evade an obviously maternal call.
“Philup, ye bad boy, where’s the carvin’ knife?” she said angrily. This was too much for the youngest assistant, who went off into something very like hysteria, while the principal tried to explain the inevitable bad effect of shocks and slaps upon the delicate organization of the child.
“An’ it’s beggin’ y’r pardon, Miss, but it’s a rale imp o’ Satan he’ll be some days, like, an’ I see it in his eye this marnin’! An imp o’ Satan!”
The principal smiled deprecatingly. “We don’t like to hear a child called that,” she said, gently. “Philip has not been so good as usual this morning——”
“Philup, ye bad boy, where’s the carvin’ knife?”
“Ye may say so!” interrupted Philip’s parent. “An’ whin it’s that way he is, it’s little good soft words’ll do, Miss. He gets it from his father. An’ me not able to cut the mate fer his father’s dinner! He’s a sly young one! It’s a good spankin’ he needs, Miss—an’ he’ll get it, too!”
“Take her into the hall with him. Tell her not to spank him. Tell her we’ll punish him. We understand how to make him sorry,” murmured the principal to the youngest assistant, as she turned to quiet the circle.
The youngest assistant conducted Philip’s mother, and dragged Philip to the hall.