" ***** "To me, you dirty blackguard!" cried Spurlock, flinging aside his helmet. "Your son," answered the boy. The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided. She became more assertive, more defiant. There were one or two bitter moments in his life when he had been made to feel that gentility laid on with a brush may sometimes crack and show weak places—that deportment and breeding are after all things apart. Springing to his feet in an ecstasy of terror, he stumbled, and had well nigh realized his worst apprehensions.
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