They have brains. Walt Dixon is almost foolish. Master dreads mentally defective lads and degenerate ones, but he never hesitates to tackle them. Nor does Mr. Bonstone. He had what might have been a very serious case of a defective lad in this neighbourhood a fortnight ago.
Gringo told me about it. He came over one morning in great haste, and flopped down beside me, as I stood on the kitchen veranda, lapping my bread and milk breakfast.
“Well, old boy,” I said, “what’s up with you?”
“Come on out under the grapevine,” he said.
We walked over to a little arbour where cook sits to prepare vegetables for dinner, and lay down in the shade.
“It’s that McGrailey brat,” said Gringo.
The McGrailey brat is a half foolish boy, the only son of a very respectable, Scotch-American gardener down in the village.
“He tried to burn us up,” said Gringo.
“Good gracious! tell me about it,” I said.
The old boy licked his lips and began. “Last night at twelve, I got up to lap a little water from my basin in my boss’s bath-room. I was just saying to myself, says I, ‘If I’m dry out here, the Bowery dogs must be on fire,’ when [I heard six yelps from that imp Yeggie].”