"The loike av this was undher masther Jack's pillow, ma'am."
"That's my boy's knife!" exclaimed Mr. Pinkshaw.
"Are the cards his, too?" asked the doctor. "I hope so, for the sake of Jack's back."
"They were his," said Jack, determining that all hope for concealment was past. "I won them from him at poker, and won the knife and the buttons too."
"It's a lie!" shouted Mr. Pinkshaw. "My boys have their faults, but they never gamble."
"Ask Matt Bolton, if you don't believe me," said Jack.
The doctor looked as fixedly at Jack as if he were trying to discern rudimentary horns, hoofs and tail. Then he arose suddenly, seized Jack, thrust him into his room, muttered something about bread and water for a week; then the old man fell upon his knees, and besought the Lord for guidance as earnestly as many another person has done after neglecting to use any of his heaven-given sense and opportunity for the control of lively children.
As for Jack, he sat moodily down upon a chair, and formed at least one resolution, to which he had long been urged: If he ever gained his liberty again, he would never, never, never, on clean stocking day, leave his dirty stockings lying about for some one else to pick up.
And on the evening of that day the doctor pored over the skeleton of his intended book on heredity, but the best he could do was to devise a chapter head, and even this was quoted from another book containing some excellent hints upon heredity:
"When the unclean spirit leaveth a man," etc.