“Pull your rope, Crispin,” said the elder to his little brother.
Crispin pulled, and heard a feeble plaint, quickly silenced by a thunder crash. “If we were only home with mama,” he mourned, “I shouldn’t be afraid.”
The other did not answer. He watched the candle melt, and seemed thoughtful.
“At least, no one there would call me a thief; mama would not have it. If she knew they had beaten me——” The elder gave the great cord a sharp pull; a deep, sonorous tone trembled out.
“Pay what they say I stole! Pay it, brother!”
“Are you mad, Crispin? Mama would have nothing to eat; they say you stole two onces, and two onces make thirty-two pesos.”
The little fellow counted thirty-two on his fingers.
“Six hands and two fingers. And each finger makes a peso, and each peso how many cuartos?”
“A hundred sixty.”
“And how much is a hundred sixty?”