“No, ma’am it ain’t. No, Miss Avice, I—I fibbed, I was a-goin’ to ask you sumpum else.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“It was one o’ them sudden jerks o’ my thinker, ’at makes me fib sometimes, when I least expect to. I dunno what that thing is, but it trips me up, lots o’ times, an’, Miss Avice, I always just hafto fib when it comes, an’—” his voice lowered to a whisper, “an’ I’m always glad I done it!”
“Glad you fibbed! Oh, Terence! I thought Judge Hoyt lectured you about that habit.”
“Yes’m, he did, ’m. But there’s times when I gotter,—jest simpully gotter, an’ that’s all there is about it!”
Somewhat shamefaced, the boy stood, twirling his cap.
“You’re a funny boy, Fibsy,” said Avice, smiling a little at the disturbed countenance.
“Yes’m, I am, Miss: but honust, I ain’t so bad as I look. An’ I don’t tell lies,—not up-and-downers. But they’s times—yes’m, there sure is times—oh, pshaw, a lady like you don’t know nothin’ ’bout it! Say, Miss Avice, kin I keep the cutter thing, all the same?”
“Yes, you may keep that” and Avice spoke a little gravely, “and Fibsy, let it be a reminder to you not to tell naughty stories.”
“Oh, I don’t, Miss, truly, I don’t do that. The fibs I tell ain’t what you’d call stories. They’s fer a purpose—always fer a purpose.”