“You haven't had time?” she echoed in more mystery. “That isn't your work—it's Willie's.” It was Ephraim's turn for mystery.
“Why, Miss Hildy, Willie told me more'n a week ago that you said fer me to do all the cleanin' up.”
“Do you mean to say that you've been doing this work for over a week? What's Willie been doing?”
“Not a lick—jes' settin' aroun' studyin' an' whistlin'.”
St. Hilda went swiftly down the hill, herself in deep study, and she summoned the Angel to the bar of her judgment. The Angel writhed and wormed, but it was no use, and at last with smile, violet eyes, and halo the Angel spoke the truth. Then a great light dawned for St. Hilda, and she played its searching rays on the Angel's past and he spoke more truth, leaving her gasping and aghast.
“Why—why did you say all that about your poor little brother?”
The Angel's answer was prompt. “Why, I figgered that you couldn't ketch Jeems Henery an' wouldn't ketch me. An',” the Angel added dreamily, “it come might' nigh bein' that-a-way if I just had——”
“You're a horrid, wicked little boy,” St. Hilda cried, but the Angel would not be perturbed, for he was a practical moralist.
“Jeems Henery,” he called into space, “come hyeh!” And out of space James Henry came, as though around the corner he had been waiting the summons.
“Jeems Henery, who was the gamblin'est, cussin'est, lyin'est boy on Viper?”