"Good gracious!" she said.
"And that isn't all!" Phyllis went on hysterically. "After Allan's
friends, or the policeman, or whoever it was, tipped him off the
wheelbarrow onto the front porch (imagine Allan in a wheelbarrow! It
would take two for the length of him!), he staggered in, and would
have beaten me, but that my noble son flung himself between! Then he
was overcome with remorse--wasn't he, Miss Addison?--and signed the
pledge."
"Good gracious!" said Joy, inadequately, again.
"Now, where on earth," demanded Miss Addison, "did he get all that?"
"Only the special angel that watches over bad little boys knows,"
said his mother with conviction. "And it won't tell. I know by
experience that I'll never get it out of Philip. He'll say, sweetly,
'Oh, I just _fought_ it, Muvver!' in as infantile a voice as
possible."
They all three sat and pondered.
"It sounds just like a tract," said Joy at last.
"Exactly like a tract," assented Phyllis. "Do you suppose--in
Sunday-school----"
"I'm his Sunday-school teacher," Miss Addison reminded her
indignantly. "That settles _that!_"
"Well, have some more tea, anyway, now the worst is over," said her
hostess hospitably.... "A _wheel_barrow!"
They continued to sit over their teacups and meditate. Suddenly
Phyllis rose swiftly and made a spring for the bookcase, scattering
sponge-cake as she went.
"I have it, I believe!" she exclaimed. "Well, who'd think--Viola
read this to Philip when he was getting over the scarlatina last
winter.
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