"No, no," said Uncle George, but the fire was hot and his chair was
comfortable and his educational zeal was dying away, "to endure the
buffets of fate with equanimity, to smile at misfortune, to endure
whatever comes, and so on----"

He stopped suddenly.

William had managed the somersault, but it had somehow brought his
feet into collision with Uncle George's neck. Uncle George sleepily
shifted his position.

[Illustration: WILLIAM WAS ON THE FLOOR BEHIND UNCLE GEORGE'S CHAIR
ENDEAVOURING TO TURN A SOMERSAULT IN A VERY RESTRICTED SPACE.]

"Boisterous! Boisterous!" he murmured disapprovingly. "You should
combine the gentleness of a Moore with the courage of a Wellington,
William."

William now perceived that Uncle George's eyelids were drooping
slowly and William's sudden statuesque calm would have surprised many
of his instructors.

The silence and the warmth of the room had their effect. In less than
three minutes Uncle George was dead to the world around him.

William's form relaxed, then he crept up to look closely at the face
of his enemy. He decided that he disliked it intensely. Something must
be done at once. He looked round the room. There were not many weapons
handy. Only his mother's work-box stood on a chair by the window, and
on it a pile of socks belonging to Robert, William's elder brother.