“What were you doing with it in your pocket if it is an infernal machine?” demanded Mrs. Rowland, looking through the pile of things on the bed.
“I traded for it in Sunday School last Sunday. Gave Fat Bascom a nickel for it. I meant to pry off the top and use it for pencils and pens.”
“I suppose Jack has it,” said Mr. Rowland, forgetting the line of lather still decorating his dark jaw. He went to Jack, and woke him up. Jack objected, and was only made to sit up and talk by many promises of ice-cream cones.
“Ess, me toot it! Ittle tin fing. Wanted it to teep marbles in, and me touldn’t det de end off. And me was doin to hit it wif a tone, and toot it out-doors.”
“Going to hit it with a stone!” groaned Eddie, shivering. “Well, you didn’t anyhow, Jack, so where is it now?”
Jack dimpled and shrugged his shoulders.
“Done! All done!” he said.
“Gone where?” coaxed Eddie, but Jack, feeling that his information had already brought in huge promises of reward, shrugged and dimpled again, and was silent.
“Gone where?” begged Eddie. “Tell you what, Jack, if you show me where you put that funny thing, I will buy you an ice-cream cone every day for a week!”
At this glorious prospect Jack burst into tears.