I do not remember biting her arm, but I do remember running down to the yard, perfectly conscious that I had committed a crime.

From the yard I went into the kitchen, got some dough from the cook, and crawled under the kitchen table.

In a minute or two my father entered from the yard and asked where I was.

The warm-hearted Irish cook had a characteristic contempt for "informers," but although she said nothing she compromised between informing and her conscience by casting a look under the table.

My father immediately dropped on all fours and darted for me.