"Crikey!" shrieked Lucille. "That's done it," and fled straightway to
her room and violent earnest prayer, not for forgiveness but for
salvation, from consequences. (What's the good of Saying your Prayers
if you can't look for Help in Time of Trouble such as this?)

The face of Mr. Alastair Kenneth MacIlwraith was not pleasant to see
as he pranced forth from the orchid-house, brandishing an implement of
his trade.

"Ye'll be needing a wash the day, Mon Sandy, and the Sawbath but fower
days syne," opined Dam, critically observing the moss-and-mud streaked
head, face and neck of the raving, incoherent victim of Lucille's
effort.

When at all lucid and comprehensible Mr. MacIlwraith was understood to
say he'd give his place (and he twanty-twa years in it) to have the
personal trouncing of Dam, that Limb, that Deevil, that predestined
and fore-doomed Child of Sin, that--

Dam pocketed his hands and said but:--

"_Havers_, Mon Sandy!"

"I'll tak' the hide fra y'r bones yet, ye feckless, impident--"

Dam shook a disapproving head and said but:--

"_Clavers_, Mon Sandy!"

"I'll _see_ ye skelped onny-how--or lose ma job, ye--"