Roy shook his head.

"It's him to say--not me."

"Did he begin it?"

"No."

"Of course he didn't," snapped the injured mother. "He's been properly
brought up," which was not exactly polite, but she was beside
herself--simply an irate mother-creature, all beak and ruffled feathers.
"You deserve to be whipped. You've hurt him badly."

"Oh, dry up, mother," Joe murmured behind his sanguinary handkerchief,
edging still further away from maternal fussings and possible catechism.

Nevil Sinclair saw clearly that his son would neither apologise nor
explain. At heart he suspected young Bradley, if only on account of his
insufferable mother, but the laws of hospitality must be upheld.

"Go to your own room, Roy," he said with creditable severity, "and stay
there till I come."

Roy gave him one look--mutely reproachful. Then--to every one's surprise
and Tara's delight--he walked straight up to the Enemy.

"I _did_ hammer hardest. 'Pologise!"

The older boy mumbled something suspiciously like the fatal word: a