"Where's the money, Crip?" and Mr. Allen turned his big, searching blue eyes on Crip, and held forth his hand.
"Why, father," said Crip, "he hadn't any, and he wanted to go home. It's three miles, you know, and snowing."
"Crip Allen! Do you know what you've done? You've stolen a pair of shoes."
"Oh, I haven't, father," cried Crip, "and 't was only the old, half-worn shoes that you mended for George Hine, that he couldn't wear."
"Christopher!" thundered forth Mr. Allen, in a voice that made the lad shake in his boots, "go into the house and right upstairs to bed. You have stolen a pair of shoes from your own father. You knew they were not yours to give away."
Poor Crip! Now he couldn't get a sight of the "Sweet Home" to-night, even through the darkness and the snow.
His upper lip began to tremble and give way, but he went into the big red house, up the front staircase to his own room, and, in the cold, crept under the blankets into a big feather bed, and thought of Jo plodding his way home.
About eight of the clock, when Crip was fast asleep, the door opened, somebody walked in, and a hand touched the boy, and left a bit of cake on his pillow; then the hand and the somebody went away, and Crip was left alone until morning. He went down to breakfast when called. His father's face was more stern than it had been the night before. Crip could scarcely swallow the needful food. When breakfast was over, Mr. Allen said:
"Christopher. Go into the garret and stay till I call you. I'll teach you not to take what doesn't belong to you, even to give away."
"Father!" beseechingly said Crip's mother, "it is the boy's birthday."