“I asked you whether you disliked work,” said the Judge, firmly.
The boy stared at him. “I like to study, to handle nice, clean books and hear nice, clean language; but what does it matter what I like? You have washed your hands of me,” and, dropping his head, he miserably toyed with an open penknife that he held in his hand.
The knife was red and stained, and the Judge eyed it suspiciously. “Dallas,” he went on, decidedly, “deceit is easier to some natures than to others. I want you to tell me in just how many ways you have tried to make things appear other than they are since you have been here.”
The boy got up in a tired way, sauntered to a closet, and opened the door. “There!” he said, bringing out a small box and setting it down on the floor. “I’ve deceived you all about these ever since I came,” and taking a little key from his pocket he opened the padlock on the box and threw back the perforated lid.
The Judge started. There on a perch in the box sat two tiny owls—the softest, grayest little owls he had ever seen. They sat close to each other, seemingly not at all afraid, but fixing their large, beautiful round eyes on Dallas they uttered a simultaneous and soft “Too whoo, whoo, whoo whoo!”
“Well!” exclaimed the Judge, “well!”
“They are California screech owls,” said the boy, in a dull voice; “my father’s pets. He loved birds, and bought these once in San Francisco when he was touring. When he died he asked me to take care of them, and I have done so for his sake, though I hate them.”
“You hate them!” said the Judge. Was it possible that he had at last found a young person that did not like birds?
“Yes, I hate them,” said the boy, energetically. “I hate all birds. I’ve been pretending to like pigeons to curry favor with your grandson. It doesn’t matter about speaking the truth now that I am going away.”
The Judge looked from the bits of raw meat in the box to Dallas’s red penknife.