Tommy Tregennis. Mary Elizabeth Phillips

THERE was Daddy, of course, and Mammy and home. Outside home was the world, and the world was a stretch of golden sand. It was a very perplexing world to a small boy, for it had a trick, when one least expected it, of hiding under the sea. At such times the confines of the world narrowed, and the world itself became a succession of rocky ledges entirely made up of don’t-go-there-Tommy places, and most of the fun was spoiled.

There was always the danger, too, in the world of rocks that clothes would not stand the extra strain they were called upon to bear. In sliding down their sea-washed sides “Take care of your trousers, ma handsome!” was forgotten until the bottom of the rock was reached and the mischief done. Tommy’s trousers were never very durable even in the beginning of things, for they were made out of Mammy’s worn-out skirts and cast-off coats (all but the Sunday pair, that is) and so little friction seemed to wear them into holes.

Just as often as the warning concerning his clothes was given him, just so often did Tommy disregard it, but never were the consequences so disastrous as on that July evening when he walked slowly up the cobble-paved alley to his home; a boy who had lost his illusions; a boy who regarded sliding down sloping rocks as a highly over-rated form of enjoyment. With one fat hand he held together a yawning rent, while with the other now and again he rubbed his eyes. Slowly he trailed unwilling feet over the cobbles, and only half-heartedly did he kick the little pile of dust left under the wall near the Church door, neglected by the dustman on his morning round.

Mammy was standing in the doorway and saw him coming. “Surely this cannot be Tommy Tregennis?” she said, in a puzzled, uncertain voice.

Tommy’s heart stood still. Suppose she didn’t know him; suppose she wouldn’t have him in the house; suppose he had to sit out on the cobble-stones all night! There was no end to the awful supposings.

However “ ’Tis me, Mammy!” he explained, and tried to put matters on a pleasant basis by butting her in the stomach as he ran head foremost.

But Mammy drew back, a hurt, surprised look in her eyes. “It sounds like Tommy Tregennis’s voice,” she said uncertainly, “but surely neither Tommy Tregennis nor his fäather ever comes home with they trousers tore! I’m just waitin’ for ma handsome, now,” she volunteered, “he’s been out playin’ in the——”

“I’m your handsome, Mammy,” declared a choking, muffled voice. “I’m your Tommy, I am, but I’ve tore me trousers on the Skiddery Rock.”

It was dreadful to make such a confession, but necessity calls for decided action; and the effect of the confession was good, for Mammy admitted her graceless son and followed him into the kitchen.

“No, don’t sit down,” she exclaimed, “let me see just what you’ve been up to, young man. I’ll tell your fäather when he comes home, Tommy Tregennis, you tearin’ up the good trousers he goes to sea to get for ee!”

Unprotesting, Tommy was led up to bed. “To-morrow,” suggested Mammy, “you’d best run fast all the way to school so as no one shan’t see ee, and start early before they other children goes out.”

There was a moment’s silence, then a wailing cry: “Oh, Mammy, Mammy, can’t ee mend they trousers to-night?” Conclusively Mammy proved the impossibility of such rapid repair and it was a broken-hearted Tommy who knelt in his little cot. “Bless Mammy, ’n Daddy, ’n make Tommy a good boy. Please get me trousers mended, Amen.” Then “Give I just another chanst, Mammy, just one more chanst.”

“But you’ve said that again and again, Tommy Tregennis, an’ it’s just been untruth, untruth every time.”

“Well, it’ll be truth this time, Mammy, for sure it will; just one more chanst.” Then very pleadingly, “Put ’em in the rag-bag, Mammy.”

Mrs. Tregennis looked horrified. “An’ that I won’t, my son. Do you think I be made of trousers that I can afford to use them for house-cleanin’ just because you’ve got ’em tore slidin’ on Skiddery Rock?”

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