the tears ran down his cheeks. His curly hair was damp and clung to his
white forehead. His blouse was soiled, his kilt awry. One short stocking
had fallen down over his shoe. Manoel was also laughing, but silently.

Lewis did not have to wait long to divine the source of mirth, for
Shenton soon essayed to walk the length of the table. Lifting his arm,
he pointed along a crack, and swung one leg around to take a first step.
But he seemed unable to place his foot as he wished. He reeled and fell
in a giggling ball, which Manoel saved from rolling to the floor.

Shrieks of laughter, deadened by the closed window, came from the child,
and Manoel's broad shoulders shook with enjoyment. He stood Shenton on
his feet, and held him till he got his balance; then the play began
again. Now Lewis felt fear steal over him, yet he could not go away.
There was something inexpressibly comical in the scene, but it was not
this that held him. A strange terror had seized him. Something was the
matter with Shenton. Lewis did not know what it was.

Suddenly Shenton's mood changed to sullen stupor, and Manoel, whose gait
was also unsteady, picked him up and carried him to a spigot, where he
carefully unbuttoned the child's waist and soaked his head in cold
water. The charm was broken. Lewis fled.




CHAPTER IV


Routine is the murderer of time. Held by the daily recurring duties of