When she entered the dining-room she found her three sons seated and the soup on the table, in its silver tureen. She ladled it out, and a middle-aged waitress in black dress and white apron distributed the plates. A discussion between the two elder boys had ceased on Mary's entrance; both now sat in silence, looking sulkily at their plates. The waitress left the room.
"Well, what's the trouble now?" Mary enquired with a touch of irony.
"I don't want Timothy to ride my horse, that's what!" declared Jim, in his slow heavy voice. "He doesn't know how to ride. Last time he nearly lamed—"
"No such thing—the old horse cast a shoe, that's all," interrupted Timothy angrily, glaring at his brother. "It isn't your horse any more than it's mine, anyway—"
"It is. Father gave it to me—"
"He said I was to learn to ride on it—"
"He didn't say you were to take it when I want it, and lame it—"
"I didn't lame it, confound you!"
"Timothy!"
Mary spoke sharply. The black-haired ruddy Timothy glanced at her resentfully.