"Hugh," he said, "your mother tells me that you have confessed to going, without permission, to Logan's Pond, where you embarked on a raft and fell into the water."
The slight emphasis he contrived to put on the word raft sent a colder shiver down my spine than the iced water had done. What did he know? or was this mere suspicion? Too late, now, at any rate, to plead guilty.
"It was a sort of a raft, sir," I stammered.
"A sort of a raft," repeated my father. "Where, may I ask, did you find it?"
"I—I didn't exactly find it, sir."
"Ah!" said my father. (It was the moment to glance meaningly at the jury.) The prisoner gulped. "You didn't exactly find it, then. Will you kindly explain how you came by it?"
"Well, sir, we—I—put it together."
"Have you any objection to stating, Hugh, in plain English, that you made it?"
"No, sir, I suppose you might say that I made it."
"Or that it was intended for a row-boat?"