“That boy’s dotty,” said Grace’s policeman; “a little bit h’orf.”
“Yer come ter bed h’at once,” said Grace severely. “I’ll tell yer pa. See if I don’t.”
She caught him roughly by the arm. Then Peter did something mean—he hated himself while he did it. “If you do, I’ll tell that you had Mr. Somp in the kitchen. Father’ll say you’re not to be trusted.”
“Ah!” said Grace’s policeman. “There’s somethin’ in that.”
“Ain’t he artful?” said Grace.
“Well,” asked Peter, “will you keep quiet if I do? Is it a bargain?”
“We didn’t find nothink,” said Grace’s policeman. “We was mistooken.”
“It must ‘a been the snow reflected in the winder,” said Grace. “Cur’ous, ‘ow the snow deceives yer!—But oh, Master Peter, I never thought this h’of yer. I reelly didn’t.”
“Until to-night I never thought it of myself,” said Peter a little sadly.
“Ah!” sighed Grace’s policeman. But to himself he thought, “More in this than meets the h’eye. I’ll be danged if there aren’t.”