“I like jail,” said Snooks cheerfully. “I’m going to stay in jail.”
Aunt Martha Turner interrupted him. She came into the kitchen like a gust of wind, scattering the others like leaves, and threw her arms around her nephew Snooksy.
“Oh, my Snooksy! My Snooksy!” she moaned. “Don’t you love your old auntie any more? Won’t you be a good boy for your poor old auntie? Don’t you love her at all any more?”
“Sure,” said Snooks happily. “A fellow can love you in jail, can’t he?”
“But won’t you come out?” she pleaded. “Everybody wants you to come out, dear, dear boy. See—they all want you to come out. Every last one of them. Please come out.”
“Oh, I like it in jail,” said Snooks. “It gives me time for meditation. Well, good-bye, folks, I’ll be going back.”
His aunt grasped him firmly by the arm and wailed. So did Nan.
“But, Snooksy,” begged Mrs. Turner, “don’t you know they’ll send me to the penitentiary if you go back to that old jail?”
“Yes, but don’t you care, auntie. They say the penitentiary is nicer than the jail. Better doors. Nobody can break in and steal things from you.”
“Snooks Turner!” said his aunt. “You know as well as I do that Mr. Mullen will forgive and forget, if you will. Would you rather see me go to prison—suffer?”