motioned toward the drawer. "Is your powder-flask there, too?" "Yes." Mr. Edwards was silent After all, he was a just man. He was trying, as well as his headache would let him, to see things straight. "It's plain what happened," he said at last. "You had an accident and got frightened. You cleaned your gun, you hid the rags, you put away your ammunition, you got your books and pretended to study. You're afraid to tell the truth now." Jim's face flushed hotly, but he kept silent. Such assurance, such cruelty, he had never imagined. If this was what smugglers were like—if this was a sample of their tricks— "I'll give you one more chance to tell the truth," said Mr. Edwards. "Did you do it?" "No, I didn't!" said Jim, and his jaw snapped close like his father's. "Very well," said Mr. Edwards. "I'll leave you until you change your mind. You will stay here. Sarah will bring you bread and milk at supper-time. If you're willing to talk to me then, you may tell her that you'd like to see me." He turned to go, then paused. "It's a serious matter; and all the facts are against you. It would go hard with you in court. It will go harder if you stick to your stubborn and foolish lie. One thing more: if you don't choose to tell the truth, you will have to reckon with the law as well as with me." Mr. Edwards, upon this, shut the door and departed. His was a stern figure, but the hurt within was very sore. This, then, he reflected bitterly, was the kind of boy he had. He suffered deeply at the discovery, which for him was unquestionable. Jim felt outraged. He had done his loyal best to save his father from the consequences of his rash act, and now, with incredible ingenuity and cool injustice, his father was using his son's acts of helpfulness to make it appear that he had done the deed. Without a scruple, his father had made him a scapegoat. Jim told himself that he would gladly have taken the blame had his father, as chief of the band, demanded the
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