“Michael,” said the Duchess.

“Yessum,” said Inky Mike, whose name happens to be Moe Sapperstein.

“What are you doing to that unfortunate person?”

“J-j-just a little j-j-joke,” replied the other in what was doubtless intended for a light-hearted and care-free tone.

“Let him down.”  Inky Mike hesitated.  “At once!” snapped the Duchess and stamped her foot.

“Yessum,” said Inky Mike meekly.

Loosing his hold on the scantling, he retreated upon the feet of those behind.  They let go also.  Plooie slid forward to the ground.  Madame Tallafferr’s bony finger (backed by the sparkle of an authoritative diamond) swept slowly around a half-circle, with very much the easy and significant motion of a machine gun and something of the effect.  A subtle suggestion of limpness manifested itself in the mass before her.  Addressing them, she raised her voice not a whit.  She had no need to.

“Go about your business,” she said.  “Rabble!” she added in precisely the tone which one might expect of a well-bred but particularly deadly snake.

The mob wilted to a purposeless and abashed crowd.  The crowd disintegrated into individuals.  The individuals asked themselves what they were doing there, and, finding no sufficient answer, slunk away.  Plooie was triumphantly escorted by Madame Tallafferr and Black Sally, and (less triumphantly) by my limping self, to the nearest haven, which chanced to be the Bonnie Lassie’s house.  Annie Oombrella pattered along beside him, fumbling his hand and trying not to cry.

But when the Bonnie Lassie saw the melancholy wreck, she cried, as much from fury as from pity, and said that men were brutes and bullies and cowards and imbeciles—­and why hadn’t her Cyrus been at home to stop it?  Whereto Madame Tallafferr complacently responded that Mr. Cyrus Staten had not been needed:  the canaille would always respect a proper show of authority from its superiors; and so went home, rustling and sparkling.

After all, Plooie was not much hurt.  Perhaps more frightened than anything else.  Panic was, in fact, the reason generally ascribed in Our Square for his quiet departure, with his Annie, of course, on the following Sunday.  Only the Bonnie Lassie dissented.  But as the Bonnie Lassie reasons with her heart instead of her head, we accept her theories with habitual and smiling indulgence rather than respect—­until the facts bear them out.  She had, it appeared, called on the Plooies to inquire as to their proposed course, and had rather more than hinted that if the head of the house wished to respond to his country’s call, Our Square would look after Annie Oombrella.  To this he returned only a stubborn and somber silence.  The Bonnie Lassie said afterward that he seemed ashamed.  She added that he had left good-bye for me and hoped the Dominie would not think too hard of him.  Recalling that I had rather markedly failed to acknowledge his salute on the morning before his departure, I felt a qualm of misgiving.  After all, judging your neighbor’s soul is a kittle business.  There is such an insufficiency of data.