The busy little dressmaker quickly snipped the shirt away, and laid bare the results of as furious and sound a thrashing as even Mr. Fledgeby merited. “You may well smart, young man!” exclaimed Miss Jenny. And stealthily rubbed her little hands behind him, and poked a few exultant pokes with her two forefingers over the crown of his head.

“What do you think of vinegar and brown paper?” inquired the suffering Fledgeby, still rocking and moaning. “Does it look as if vinegar and brown paper was the sort of application?”

“Yes,” said Miss Jenny, with a silent chuckle. “It looks as if it ought to be pickled.”

Mr. Fledgeby collapsed under the word “pickled,” and groaned again. “My kitchen is on this floor,” he said; “you’ll find brown paper in a dresser-drawer there, and a bottle of vinegar on a shelf. Would you have the kindness to make a few plasters and put ’em on? It can’t be kept too quiet.”