Lionel Hezekiah, whatever his shortcomings, did not look bad.
Indeed, he was as engaging an urchin as ever beamed out on
a jolly good world through a pair of big, velvet-brown eyes.
He was chubby and firm-limbed, with a mop of beautiful golden curls,
which were the despair of his heart and the pride and joy of Salome's;
and his round face was usually a lurking-place for dimples
and smiles and sunshine.
But just now Lionel Hezekiah was under a blight; he had been caught
red-handed in guilt, and was feeling much ashamed of himself.
He hung his head and squirmed his toes under the mournful
reproach in Salome's eyes. When Salome looked at him like that,
Lionel Hezekiah always felt that he was paying more for his fun
than it was worth.
"What do you suppose I caught him doing this time?" demanded Judith.
"I--I don't know," faltered Salome.
"Firing--at--a-- mark--on--the--henhouse--door--with--
new-laid--eggs," said Judith with measured distinctness.
"He has broken every egg that was laid to-day except three.
And as for the state of that henhouse door--"
Judith paused, with an indignant gesture meant to convey that
the state of the henhouse door must be left to Salome's imagination,
since the English language was not capable of depicting it.
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