Then I fed them up on chocolate and whipped cream and lemonade and

tartar sandwiches, and sent them home, expansive and beaming, but

without any appetite for dinner.

I dwell thus at length upon our triumph, in order to create in you a

happy frame of mind, before passing to the higeous calamity that so

nearly wrecked the occasion.

"Now follows the dim horror of my tale,

And I feel I'm growing gradually pale,

For, even at this day,

Though its smell has passed away,

When I venture to remember it, I quail!"

You never heard of our little Tammas Kehoe, did you? I simply haven't

featured Tammas because he requires so much ink and time and vocabulary.

He's a spirited lad, and he follows his dad, a mighty hunter of

old--that sounds like more Bab Ballads, but it isn't; I made it up as I

went along.

We can't break Tammas of his inherited predatory instincts. He shoots

the chickens with bows and arrows and lassoes the pigs and plays

bull-fight with the cows--and oh, is very destructive! But his crowning

villainy occurred an hour before the trustees' meeting, when we wanted

to be so clean and sweet and engaging.

It seems that he had stolen the rat trap from the oat bin, and had set

it up in the wood lot, and yesterday morning was so fortunate as to

catch a fine big skunk.

Singapore was the first to report the discovery. He returned to the

house and rolled on the rugs in a frenzy of remorse over his part of the

business. While our attention was occupied with Sing, Tammas was busily

skinning his prey in the seclusion of the woodshed. He buttoned the pelt

inside his jacket, conveyed it by a devious route through the length

of this building, and concealed it under his bed where he thought it

wouldn't be found.

Then he went--per schedule--to the basement to help freeze the ice-cream

for our guests. You notice that we omitted ice-cream from the menu.

In the short time that remained we created all the counter-irritation

that was possible. Noah (negro furnace man) started smudge fires at

intervals about the grounds. Cook waved a shovelful of burning coffee

through the house. Betsy sprinkled the corridors with ammonia. Miss

Snaith daintily treated the rugs with violet water. I sent an emergency

call to the doctor who came and mixed a gigantic solution of chlorid

of lime. But still, above and beneath and through every other odor, the

unlaid ghost of Tammas's victim cried for vengeance.

The first business that came up at the meeting, was whether we should

dig a hole and bury, not only Tammas, but the whole main building. You

can see with what finesse I carried off the shocking event, when I tell

you that the Hon. Cy went home chuckling over a funny story, instead of

grumbling at the new superintendent's inability to manage boys.




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