The small boy was very dirty, ruddy and cheerful. He had torn his
blouse, and scratched his brow, and the crown of his straw hat had
parted company with the brim.
"George," said his sister severely, "have you been corrupting the
manners of my son? Where have you been?"
The boy--he rejoiced in the sounding name of Archibald--slapped a small
leg with a miniature whip, and counterfeited with great skill the pose
of the stable-yard. He slowly unclenched a smutty fist and revealed
three separate shillings.
"I won um myself," he explained.
"Is it highway robbery?" asked his mother with horrified eyes.
"Archibald, have you stopped a coach, or held up a bus or anything of
the kind?"
The child unclenched his hand again, beamed on his prize, smiled
knowingly at the world, and shut it.
"What has the dreadful boy been after? Oh, tell me, George, please. I
will try to bear it."
"We fell in with a Sunday-school picnic along in the glen, and Archie
made me take him there. And he had tea--I hope the little chap won't be
ill, by the by. And he made a speech or a recitation or something of
the sort. Nobody understood it, but it went down like anything."
"And do you mean to say that the people gave him money, and you allowed
him to take it?" asked an outraged mother.
"He won it," said George. "Won it in fair fight. He was second in the
race under twelve, and first in the race under ten.
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