We had just got through our supper, and Uncle Peter had gone to his room, when all at once I heard his door open, and his voice, loud and sharp, call, “Gregory!”
“Yes, sir,” I answered, my heart in a flutter; and to myself I thought, “O, dear, what can be the matter now?”
“Come here, quick!” he ordered.
I entered his room, and saw him standing near his table, with a cigar-box in his hand.
“You young rascal,” he began; “so you have been stealing my cigars!”
This charge of theft was so unexpected, so insulting, so untrue, that, if he had struck me a blow between the eyes, it could not have taken me more aback. The blood rushed to my face; my whole frame grew rigid, as if I had been petrified. I tried to speak; but my presence of mind had deserted me; I could not think of a single word.
“Well?” he questioned. “Well? ''
“I—I—I”—I stammered. Scared out of my wits, I could get no further.
“Well, have you nothing to say for yourself?”
“I—I did—I didn't—do it,” I gasped. “I don't know what you mean.”