"I try to do my duty as a man and a Christian," said the vestryman, piously. "You can't be allowed to run loose, Peter. 'T aint right. 'T ain't moral. 'T ain't Christian. You'll be better off in a good orphan-asylum, bein' taught what you'd ought to learn. That's the place for you, Peter!"
"I want to stay in my own house," said Peter.
"Shucks! You can't eat and wear a measly little house, can you? That's what I'm askin' the town right now. Sure you can't! The thing to do is to sell that place for what it'll fetch, sock the money in bank for you, and it'll be there—with interest—when you've grown up and aim to start in business for yourself. Yes, sir. That's my idea."
"Mr. McMasters," said Peter, evenly, "I want you to know one thing sure and certain. If you send me to any orphan-asylum, I'll send you to some place where you'll be better off, too, sir."
"Meanin'?"
Peter Champneys shot at the stout vestryman a glance like the thrust of a golden spear.
"The cemetery, Mr. McMasters," said he, with the deadly South Carolina gentleness.
The two stared at each other. It wasn't the boy's glance that fell first.
"Threatenin' me, hey? Threatenin' a father of a family, are you?" Mr. McMasters licked his lips.
"Oh, no, Mr. McMasters, I'm not threatening you, at all. I'm just telling you what'll happen."