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Mrs. Wopp obligingly gave as an encore, “There were ninety and nine,” apropos of nothing whatever. Then turning to a portrait on the wall, she enlarged on the musical ability of a great-uncle from whom she reckoned she had received her gift of song. “It’s time Billy was at home,” he heard his mother say as he opened her room door; and he stumbled on more hurriedly, across the bridge—at last, the Fo’castle! “I guess ours’ll be a grown-up chap; but I wish he’d be a boy my size. How do you guess poor old San Francisco looks to-day?”.

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Still, since Billy had broken his resolution of silence, he was feverishly eager to talk. His thoughts were erratic, now in the present, again flying back to the past. “O mother, you should be lickin’ me ’nstead of petting me!” he broke out passionately. Choosing a piece of bright yellow chalk she began to inscribe the golden text on the blackboard. She pressed too hard and the chalk cracked and fell to the floor. Pete Stolway vaulted out of his chair to capture the yellow pencil, but he had the misfortune to step on both the pieces of crayon, crushing them to sand, a heap of yellow grit. “Never mind, Mosey, we’ll tell Miss Gordon. She’ll give them sulphur an’ brimstone to-morrer.” “Hurry up, Moses,” she called, as soon as her joy had subsided, “git those pipes finished an’ go arfter yor chores.”.