But, all the while, the other half of his thoughts was good. The angels knew it; for they had charge of Pollio. If you had been there, you couldn’t have heard the still small voice, deep down in his soul, saying,—
“Think I’d be so mean as not to tell?”
But the angels heard it, and smiled. They knew it was hard work for the little fellow to make up his mind, and that was why he scolded and scowled. Mr. Littlefield was fond of him, and Pollio liked to be liked. It did require courage this time to tell the truth and be despised. Of course the good Quaker would say,—
“Well, Napoleon, if this is the way thee behaves, I don’t want thee to come to my house visiting again.”
Ah, well! but you needn’t think Pollio wasn’t going to walk up to his duty like a man. What is the use of a father and mother, and uncle and aunt, to tell you what is right, if you won’t do it? He wasn’t a coward and a liar: if he had been, I wouldn’t have written this story about him; but I must confess a snail could have walked faster than he did going back to the house.
“Well, well, Napoleon! Thee came pretty near losing thy supper,” said Mr. Littlefield, smiling, as Pollio came slowly toward him, and pulled him by the sleeve.
Supper! Why, his throat was so full of lumps that a crumb would have choked him! Not a word could he speak as he dragged his friend along to the stable.
The worst was over now; for, the moment Mr. Littlefield saw the broken carriage, he knew the whole story.
I cannot say he wasn’t vexed. Pollio had proved more troublesome than he had expected,—chasing the cows, putting the wheelbarrow, rake, and hoe out of place, and now meddling with this new carriage.