“Didn’t you want to go in a-swimming, Tom?”     

       A bit of a scare shot through Tom—a touch of uncomfortable suspicion. He searched Aunt Polly’s face, but it told him nothing. So he said:     

       “No’m—well, not very much.”     

       The old lady reached out her hand and felt Tom’s shirt, and said:     

       “But you ain’t too warm now, though.” And it flattered her to reflect that she had discovered that the shirt was dry without anybody knowing that that was what she had in her mind. But in spite of her, Tom knew where the wind lay, now. So he forestalled what might be the next move:     

       “Some of us pumped on our heads—mine’s damp yet. See?”     

       Aunt Polly was vexed to think she had overlooked that bit of circumstantial evidence, and missed a trick. Then she had a new inspiration:     

       “Tom, you didn’t have to undo your shirt collar where I sewed it, to pump on your head, did you? Unbutton your jacket!”     

       The trouble vanished out of Tom’s face. He opened his jacket. His shirt collar was securely sewed.     

       “Bother! Well, go ’long with you. I’d made sure you’d played hookey and been a-swimming. But I forgive ye, Tom. I reckon you’re a kind of a singed cat, as the saying is—better’n you look. This time.”     

       She was half sorry her sagacity had miscarried, and half glad that Tom had stumbled into obedient conduct for once.     

       But Sidney said:     

       “Well, now, if I didn’t think you sewed his collar with white thread, but it’s black.”     

       “Why, I did sew it with white! Tom!”     

       But Tom did not wait for the rest. As he went out at the door he said:     

       “Siddy, I’ll lick you for that.”     

       In a safe place Tom examined two large needles which were thrust into the lapels of his jacket, and had thread bound about them—one needle carried white thread and the other black. He said:     

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