“There was a little accident,” said Mrs. Mudge, reluctantly. “Some mischievous boy had been knocking and running away; so, when your father knocked, I thought it might be he, and—and I believe I threw some water on him. But I hope he has forgiven it, as it wasn't intentional. I should like to get hold of that boy,” said Mrs. Mudge, wrathfully, “I should like to shake him up.”
“Have you any idea who it was?” asked Ben, gravely.
“No,” said Mrs. Mudge, “I haven't, but I shall try to find out. Whoever it is, he's a scamp.”
“Very complimentary old lady,” thought Ben. He said in a sober tone, which would have imposed upon any one, “There are a good many mischievous boys around here.”
Mrs. Mudge grimly assented.
“Oh, by the way, Mrs. Mudge,” asked Ben, suddenly, “have you ever heard anything of Paul Prescott since he left you?”
“No,” snapped Mrs. Mudge, her countenance growing dark, “I haven't. But I can tell pretty well where he is.”
“Where?”
“In the penitentiary. At any rate, if he isn't, he ought to be. But what was you wanting?”
“I want to see Mrs. Lee.”