On this particular morning silence reigned. A deep gasp from some small Jackson, wrestling with bread-and-milk, and an occasional remark from Mr. Jackson on the letters he was reading, alone broke it.
"Mike's late again," said Mrs. Jackson plaintively, at last.
"He's getting up," said Marjory. "I went in to see what he was doing, and he was asleep. So," she added with a satanic chuckle, "I squeezed a sponge over him. He swallowed an awful lot, and then he woke up, and tried to catch me, so he's certain to be down soon."
"Marjory!"
"Well, he was on his back with his mouth wide open I had to. He was snoring like anything."
"You might have choked him."
"I did," said Marjory with satisfaction. "Jam, please, Phyllis, you pig."
Mr. Jackson looked up.
"Mike will have to be more punctual when he goes to Wrykyn," he said.
"Oh, father, is Mike going to Wrykyn?" asked Marjory. "When?"
"Next term," said Mr. Jackson. "I've just heard from Mr. Wain," he added across the table to Mrs. Jackson. "The house is full, but he is turning a small room into an extra dormitory, so he can take Mike after all."
The first comment on this momentous piece of news came from Bob Jackson. Bob was eighteen. The following term would be his last at Wrykyn, and, having won through so far without the infliction of a small brother, he disliked the prospect of not being allowed to finish as he had begun.
"I say!" he said. "What?"
"He ought to have gone before," said Mr. Jackson. "He's fifteen. Much too old for that private school. He has had it all his own way there, and it isn't good for him."
"He's got cheek enough for ten," agreed Bob.
