hard enough since early this mornin’.  I’ve been workin’,” he went on pathetically.  His eye wandered to the notice on his wall.  “I’ve been busy all right, but it doesn’t make me happy—­not jus’ now,” he added, with memories of the rapture of the fight.  That certainly must be repeated some time.  Buckets of water and 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.

“Good-morning, William,” he said, “and a happy Christmas, and I hope it’s not too much to ask of you that on this relation-infested day one’s feelings may be harrowed by you as little as possible.  And why the deu—­dickens they think it necessary to wash the hall floor before breakfast, Heaven only knows!”

William coughed, a cough meant to be a polite mixture of greeting and deference.  William’s face was a study in holy innocence.  His father glanced at him suspiciously.  There were certain expressions of William’s that he distrusted.

William entered the dining-room morosely.  Jimmy’s sister Barbara—­a small bundle of curls and white frills—­was already beginning her porridge.

“Goo’ mornin’,” she said, politely, “did you hear me cleanin’ my teef?”

He crushed her with a glance.

He sat eating in silence till everyone had come down, and Aunts Jane, Evangeline, and Lucy were consuming porridge with that mixture of festivity and solemnity that they felt the occasion demanded.

Then Jimmy entered, radiant, with a tin in his hand.

“Got presents,” he said, proudly.  “Got presents, lots of presents.”

He deposited on Barbara’s plate a worm which Barbara promptly threw at his face.  Jimmy looked at her reproachfully and proceeded to Aunt Evangeline.  Aunt Evangeline’s gift was a centipede—­a live centipede that ran gaily off the tablecloth on to Aunt Evangeline’s lap before anyone could stop it.  With a yell that sent William’s father to the library with his hands to his ears, Aunt Evangeline leapt to her chair and stood with her skirts held to her knees.