“Then,” said Frank, “I think it will be best to whip it out of you. Where's my stick?”
“Oh, no, Mass' Frank,” said Pomp, in alarm; “I'll be good, for sure.”
“Then sit down and get your lesson.”
Again Pomp assumed his cricket. Before he had time to devise any new mischief, Mrs. Frost came to the head of the stairs and called Frank.
Frank laid aside his books, and presented himself at the foot of the stairs.
“I should like your help a few minutes. Can you leave your studies?”
“Certainly, mother.”
Before going up, he cautioned Pomp to study quietly, and not get into any mischief while he was gone. Pomp promised very readily.
Frank had hardly got upstairs before his pupil rose from the cricket, and began to look attentively about him. His first proceeding was to, hide his primer carefully in Mrs. Frost's work-basket, which lay on the table. Then, looking curiously about him, his attention was drawn to the old-fashioned clock that stood in the corner.
Now, Pomp's curiosity had been strongly excited by this clock. It was not quite clear to him how the striking part was effected. Here seemed to be a favorable opportunity for instituting an investigation. Pomp drew his cricket to, the clock, and, opening it, tried to reach up to the face. But he was not yet high enough. He tried a chair, and still required a greater elevation. Espying Frank's Latin dictionary, he pressed that into service.