“Because,” continued young Tim, “you were breaking the law, yourself, this afternoon—you and Harry.”
Little Tim dodged back out of reach, in a hurry; for the squire made a dart at him, turning purple with anger.
“What do you mean, you young scamp!” cried the squire. “Just let me get you by the ear once. Accusing me of breaking the law!”
Little Tim’s nimble bare feet carried him out of the way of the squire’s arm. From a safe distance, he continued:
“Yes, you and Harry were breaking the law, out there in the boat. You were tied up to one of the spar-buoys. They belong to the gov’ment. I’ve heard a fisherman say so; and it’s fifty dollars fine for any one to moor a boat to one of ’em. Didn’t you know that, squire?”
Little Tim asked this question with a provoking innocence that nearly threw the squire into an apoplectic fit.
“Pooh!” he exclaimed. “Pooh!” He turned a shade deeper purple, feigned to bluster for a moment, and then, realizing, with full and overwhelming consciousness, that what Little Tim had said was true, subsided, muttering to himself.
The squire stood irresolutely in the street, holding the lobster in one hand, and glaring in a confused sort of way at Little Tim, who was now grinning provokingly.
“Here, you young scamp,” he said at length, “come here.”
Little Tim approached, discreetly.