he moment had come for him to speak. He did not hesitate. Had he been forty-five and bald, he could not have met the situation with more determined conventionality. He realized, plainly enough, that the family had been disgraced, and neither to herself nor to the world would he minimize or excuse Margery's culpability. Yet, nevertheless, he would do his best to hush up the scandal.
"See here, you kids," he began warningly. Both hands were occupied, so he could not emphasize his threat with the sight of a clenched fist. His tones, however, carried conviction. "If any of you's blab about this, I'll give you such a smashin'——"
Henry did not finish the sentence. There was no need to finish the sentence. When one's thought has been fully enough expressed, why go on further?
Henry paused a moment for the meaning to sink in. Then he started up the knoll, dragging Margery after him. Instantly the pond was in an uproar.
"Oh, Henry, can't guess who I seen in swimmin' this afternoon!"
"Comin' back to-morrow, ain't you, Margery?"
"Better slow up, Henry, or you'll drop your minnies."
"Say, Margery, your stockin's is comin' down."
Then Freddy Larkin started to chant at the top of his lungs: