scrubbing-brushes. He wondered he'd never thought of that before.

William's mother looked down at his dripping form.

"Did you get all that water with just cleaning up the snail marks?"
she said.

William coughed and cleared his throat. "Well," he said,
deprecatingly, "most of it. I think I got most of it."

"If it wasn't Christmas Day ..." she went on darkly.

William's spirits rose. There was certainly something to be said for
Christmas Day.

It was decided to hide the traces of the crime as far as possible from
William's father. It was felt--and not without reason--that William's
father's feelings of respect for the sanctity of Christmas Day might
be overcome by his feelings of paternal ire.

Half-an-hour later William, dried, dressed, brushed, and chastened,
descended the stairs as the gong sounded in a hall which was bare of
hats and coats, and whose floor shone with cleanliness.

"And jus' to think," said William, despondently, "that it's only jus'
got to brekfust time."

William's father was at the bottom of the stairs. William's father
frankly disliked Christmas Day.