"It's mean to have somebody else take your blame or your punishment; mamma said so."
The small casuist was too discreet to attack Johnny's oracle; she only pouted her pretty lips and quibbled:
"'Tain't mean if the people who get blamed are mean themselves—like him. I don't care how blamed he gets; I wouldn't care if he got licked."
But Johnny's conscience was not so elastic. "I don't care, either," he protested. "I—I wouldn't care if he was deaded"—anxious to propitiate—"but it would be mean just the same. I got to tell papa, Peggy, I truly have."
Peggy grew very cross. "You are just the foolest, obsternatest little boy I ever did see," she grumbled; "you're a plumb idiot! I'd like to slap you! Your papa'll be awful mad."
Johnny-Ivan essayed an indifferent mien, but his eyes were miserable.
"Say, Jo'nivan,"—her voice sank to a whisper that curdled his blood—"were you ever spanked?"
"Only Hilma sorter kinder—not really spanking, you know," confessed Johnny with a toss of his head. "I just made faces at her; I didn't cry!" he bragged.
"Never your mamma or your papa?"
"Course not," said Johnny with a haughty air; "but, Peggy," he said very low, "were you—did—"