“The sides of the jar are quite clean,” said Howard.
“But the inside of the paper that covered it is stained with sweetmeats,” said Dr. B.
“There must have been sweetmeats in it lately,” said Mrs. Howard, “because the jar smells so strongly of them.”
Amongst the pieces of crumpled paper which had been pulled out of the jar, Dr. B. espied one, on which there appeared some writing: he looked it over.
“Humph! What have we here? What’s this? What can this he about a lottery?—tickets, price half a guinea—prizes-gold watch!—silver ditto—chased tooth-pick case—buckles—knee-buckles. What is all this?—April 10th, 1797—the drawing to begin—prizes to be delivered at Westminster school, by Aaron Carat, jeweller? Hey, young gentlemen,” cried Dr. B., looking at Oliver and Charles, “do you know any thing of this lottery?”
“I have no concern in it, sir, I assure you,” said Howard.
“Nor I, thank goodness—I mean, thank you, Charles,” exclaimed Oliver; “for you hindered me from putting into the lottery: how very lucky I was to take your advice!”
“How very wise, you should say, Oliver,” said Dr. B. “I must inquire into this business; I must find out who ordered these things from Mr. Aaron Carat. There shall be no lotteries, no gaming at Westminster school, whilst I have power to prevent it. To-morrow morning I’ll inquire into this affair; and to-morrow morning we shall also know, my little fellow, what became of your sweetmeats.”
“Oh, never mind that,” cried the good-natured Oliver; “don’t say any thing, pray, sir, about my sweetmeats: I don’t mind about them; I know already—I guess now, who took them; therefore you need not ask; I dare say it was only meant for a joke.”
Dr. B. made no reply; but folded up the paper which he had been reading, put it into his pocket, and soon after took his leave.