The superintendent sniffed again and scrutinized the boy's hands, which rested on the corner of his desk.
“What's that on your fingers?”
Clarence considered.
“That? Why, that must be walnut-stains from last year. Didn't you ever get walnut-stains on your hands when you was a boy, Mr. Oakley?”
“I suppose so, but I don't remember that they lasted all winter.”
Clarence was discreetly silent. He felt that the chief executive of the Huckleberry took too great an interest in his personal habits. Besides, it was positively painful to have to tell lies that went so wide of the mark as his had gone.
“I guess you may as well go home now. But I wouldn't smoke any more cigarettes, if I were you,” gathering up his letters.
“Good-night, Mr. Oakley,” with happy alacrity.
“Good-night, Clarence.”
The door into the yards closed with a bang, and Clarence, gleefully skipping the mud-puddles which lay in his path, hurried his small person off through the rain and mist.