Tim reached out the bag, and Charley ran his hand which secreted the paper far into it. Then he drew out his hand—empty.
“No, Tim,” he said, “I think you have given away enough already. But here’s the whistle, all the same. Now, run home, like a good boy.”
Young Tim tried his whistle somewhat doubtfully, for he was at a loss to know why it should be given to him for nothing. Big boys did not make a practice of throwing away good whistles on him, unless they looked for some return. Generosity so lavish astounded him.
But the first toot assured him of the soundness of the gift; a smile of pleasure flitted over his grimy face; and he exclaimed joyously, “Man! It’s bully, ain’t it?”
“Oh, it’s a good one,” Charley averred.
“I—I was afraid p’r’aps it was busted,” Tim acknowledged.
Then young Tim rose to his feet and wended his way homeward, piping melodiously on his whistle, unconscious of the bomb-shell hidden in the bag; while hard behind him, licking their daubed lips as they went, trotted the two parasitical boys who had been junketing on his mother’s raisins.
Charley, grinning and chuckling, hurried back to his comrades.
“I hope I’ve taught that thieving little sneak-thief a lesson he will remember,” he said, with a smile intended to be exceedingly moral.