So that was it? Anson had "peached"! Billy swallowed hard. His mind reviewed the days of the past two weeks. Again he saw a pair of blue eyes, misty with love and feeling; heard a voice whose cadence was sweeter than honey saying, "My! Billy, you are so different from any other boy I've ever met; and you always wear such nice clothes, too." Oh those wonderful, joy-filled days! What boy would not have risked far more than he had risked to win such commendation from the girl of all girls.
"Well?" His mother's voice dispelled the vision. "Are you goin' to answer me, Willium?"
Billy squared his shoulders. Yes, he would do as she would wish. He would confess. But the best of intentions go oft awry and Billy's present ones were suddenly sidetracked by a giggle from Anson, a giggle freighted with malice, triumph and devilish joy at his predicament.
Now, a boy may make up his mind to die a hero, but no boy cares to be ushered out by gibes and "I-told-you-so's." Billy promptly adopted new tactics. "This ain't my suit, Ma," he said.
Mrs. Wilson started so at his words that she rammed the cake of soap into Anson's mouth.
"Not yourn? Then whose is it?" she cried in amazement.
"It's Anse's. We must have got 'em mixed when we was dressin'."
"Willium, are you lyin' to me? If you are it's goin' to be the costliest lie you ever told."
Billy returned her angry gaze without a flicker of an eyelid. The reproach in his grey eyes was enough to make any mother ashamed of having doubted, and, as a matter of natural consequence, anger her the more. "How do you know that's Anson's suit?" she shot at Billy, between rubs. "How do you know it, you young imp, you?"
Billy moved forward, halting a safe distance from his mother. "You'll remember, Ma, that Anse's pants has two hip pockets, an mine only one."