"Simmy B.," he answered revengefully in a tone of alarming hoarseness.
"Such colds as that boy has!" exclaimed the paternal Cradlebow. "They're
like all the rest of him--they're phenomenal. There are times when that
boy appears to be nothing but one frightful, perambulating cold! Well,"
he sighed, "and yet it's a strange fact, that the more depraved and
miserable a little devil is, the more his mother'll coddle him.
"Now there's this one and my Lute--Luther Larkin--a good boy, but lacking
all capacity for rest--always lacking the capacity for rest--uneasy, both
of them--always uneasy! but how the mother would give her own rest for
them, and seem to love them the better for it! strange! They have always
been her idols, too. Well, I have captured Simeon and brought him in. I
hope you may keep him. The rest you must learn for yourself. The Lord
help me!" he groaned, as he picked up his cane, with evident physical
pain, and hobbled cut of the room.
Within the school-room, things resumed their customary, Niagara-like
roar, until a lamentable voice rose above the others, and was straightway
followed by another voice in indignant explanation.
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