despicable--"

"I never did like cinnamon, anyhow," put in Weary, cheerfully.

"I did not mention cinnamon. I said--"

"Say, yuh look out uh sight with your hair fixed that way. I wish
you'd wear it like that all the time," he observed irrelevantly,
looking up at her with his sunniest smile.

"I wish to goodness I were really out of sight," snapped the
schoolma'am. "You make me exceedingly weary."

"_Mrs._ Weary," corrected he, complacently. "That's what I'm sure
aiming at."

"You aim wide of the mark, then," she retorted valiantly, though
confusion waved a red flag in either cheek.

"Oh, I don't know. A minute ago you were roasting me because my aim
was too good," he contended mildly, glancing involuntarily toward the
gopher stretched upon its little, yellow back, its four small feet
turned pitifully up to the blue.

"If you had an atom of decency you'd be ashamed to mention that tribute
to your diabolical marksmanship."

"Oh, mamma!" ejaculated Weary under his breath, and began to make
himself a smoke. His guardian angel was exhorting him to silence, but
it preached, as usual, to unsentient ears.