“Jack,” interposed his mother sternly.
Then the babies were bundled up and carried down stairs, well wrapped up for their 32 ride. Manila enjoyed the outing when she didn’t have Jack. She went down again by the stores. There were two she delighted in, book and stationery stores. One window was full of magazines and papers, and she read bits here and there. She was so fond of reading and she would piece out the page she read with her own imaginings. She always staid out two hours, more when it was pleasant, and brought back the babies, rosy and bright eyed.
“Jack,” and his father took him on his knee that evening, “you have been a very bad boy today. You have been a thief. Suppose the man had sent you to the Station House?”
“I wouldn’t a’ gone.”
“Well, you would have had to. Thieves break laws and are sent to prison. And there you broke up the toys. You must never go in a store again without your mother.”
“M’rilla took me in.”
“And mother and Auntie supposed they could trust you. Now they can’t. You will have to be watched and punished, and I am 33 going to do it. There’ll be no more Sunday walks with me, either.”
“Can’t I go alone?”
“Not until you are a good boy.”
Jack looked rather sober, but his father saw he was not making much impression. And presently his mother put him to bed.