"Two," said Crow.
"Turn 'em out!"
Crow drew out his little rust-stained pockets, dropping a few old nails and bits of twine upon the floor as he did so.
"Um—h'm! Well, now, I'll tell you. You're a dirty little thief, as I said before. And I'm going to treat you as one. If you wear those pockets hanging out, or rip 'em out, and come in here before you leave every day dressed just as you are—pants and jacket and skin—and empty out your basket for us before you go, until I'm satisfied you'll do better, you can come."
The old lady looked at her husband as if she thought him pretty hard on a very small boy. But she said nothing.
Crow glanced appealingly at her before answering. And then he said, seizing his pocket:
"Is you got air pair o' scissors, lady?"
Mrs. Cary wished her husband would relent even while she brought the scissors, but he only cried:
"Out with 'em!"
"Suppose you cut them out yourself, Solomon," she interposed, kindly, handing him the scissors. "You'll have all this work to do yourself. We can't make you good."