"O Mr. Linden kep' that," said Joe unblushingly, "'cause it was so good lookin'."
"He was so fond of you?" said Mr. Simlins. "How come he to let you go?"
"I staid away," said Joe, drumming on the back of Miss Cecilia's chair.
"Cilly's got the rest of the copy-books—she likes the writin' too."
"Joe, behave yourself!" said his sister. "Mr. Simlins knows better than to believe you."
"Did you ever get flogged, Joe, for bad writin'?" said the farmer.
"Worse'n that!" said Joe, shaking his head,—"I've had to do it over!"
"Now you've got to do it over for me," said Mr. Simlins. "You write your name for me there—the best you kin—and 'Pattaquasset, Connecticut'—I want to see what the new school's up to."
"No"—said Joe—"I aint agoin' to do it. You ask one of the other boys. It wouldn't tell you nothin' if I did, 'cause I learned writin' afore,—and I didn't go to him but four weeks, besides." And Joe at once absented himself.
"Is it workin' as straight with all the rest of 'em as it is with him?" said Mr. Simlins. "You and me's got to see to it, you know, Squire—seein' we're honorary individuals."
"Yes," said Squire Deacon, rousing up now Joe was gone—he had a wholesome fear of Joe's tongue—"Yes, Mr. Simlins,—and it's my belief it wants seein' to—and he too."