that boy of mine to-morrow, nor this week, nor next. Was ever such a pack
of fools! Let Dickie think he is being hunted, and he'll be a bushranger,
or a brigand chief, or a pirate, or something desperately wicked in that
amazin' head of his, and you won't get a-nigh him for weeks, not a man
Jack of you! Dear, dear, dear, you men--a set of interferin',
mutton-headed creatures!

'He's an unregenerate youth--that boy of yours, ma'am.'

'Is he, indeed?' Mrs. Haddon's handsome face flushed, and she squared her
trim little figure. 'Was he that when he went down the broken winze to
poor Ben Holden? Was he that when he brought little Kitty Green and her
pony out of the burnin' scrub? Was he all a little villain when he found
you trapped in the cleft of a log under the mount there, when the Stream
men wouldn't stir a foot to seek you?

During this outburst Shine had twisted his boots in all directions, and
examined them minutely from every point of view.

'No, no, ma'am,' he said, 'not all bad, not at all; but--ah, the--ah,
influence of a father is missing, Mrs. Haddon.'

'That's my boy's misfortune, Mr. Superintendent.'

'It--it might be removed.'

'Eh? What's that you say?'

The widow eyed her visitor sharply, but he was squirming over his
unfortunate feet, and apparently suffering untold agonies on their