LITMIR.BIZ

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Pendleton's store, – a general country variety store, in which the most dissimilar articles were kept for sale.

      "Have you got a catechism?" asked the deacon, entering with Sam at his side.

      "We've got just one left."

      "How much is it?"

      "Ten cents."

      "I'll take it."

      Sam looked on with interest till the clerk produced the article; then his countenance underwent a change.

      "Why, it's a book," he said.

      "Of course it is. It is a very good book, from which you will learn all about your duty, and your religious obligations."

      "You needn't buy it. I don't want it," said Sam.

      "Don't want the catechism!" said the deacon, not without anger.

      "No, it aint any good."

      "My boy, I know better what is good for you than you do. I shall buy you the catechism."

      "I'd rather you'd get me that book," said Sam, pointing to a thin pamphlet copy of "Jack, the Giant-Killer."

      But Deacon Hopkins persisted in making the purchase proposed.

      "Are there any pictures in it?" asked Sam.

      "No."

      "Then I shan't like it."

      "You don't know what is for your good. I hope you will be wiser in time. But here we are at the house. Come right in, and mind you wipe your feet."

      This was Sam's first introduction into the Hopkins' household. He proved a disturbing element, as we shall presently see.

      CHAPTER III.

      A HARD CASE

      The first meal to which Sam sat down at the deacon's house was supper. It was only a plain supper, – tea, bread and butter, and apple-pie; but to Sam, who was not used to regular meals of any kind, it seemed luxurious. He despatched slice after slice of bread, eating twice as much as any one else at the table, and after eating his share of the pie gazed hungrily at the single slice which remained on the plate, and asked for that also.

      Deacon Hopkins thought it was time to interfere.

      "You've had one piece a'ready," he said.

      "I know it," said Sam; "but I'm hungry."

      "I don't see how you can be. You've eat more than any of us."

      "It takes a good deal to fill me up," said Sam, frankly.

      "The boy'll eat us out of house and home," said Mrs. Hopkins, in alarm. "You can't have any more. You've had enough."

      Sam withdrew his plate. He did not look abashed, for he was never much inclined that way, nor did his feelings appear to be hurt, for he was not sensitive; but he took the matter coolly, and pushing back his chair from the table was about to leave the room.

      "Where are you a-goin?" asked his new guardian.

      "Out doors."

      "Stop. I've got something for you to do."

      The deacon went to the mantel-piece and took therefrom the catechism.

      "You aint had no bringin' up, Samuel," he said. "You don't know nothin' about your moral and religious obligations. It's my dooty to make you learn how to walk uprightly."

      "I can walk straight now," said Sam.

      "I don't mean that – I mean in a moral sense. Come here."

      Sam unwillingly drew near the deacon.

      "Here, I want you to study the first page of the catechism, and recite it to me before you go to bed."

      Sam took the book, and looked at the first page doubtfully.

      "What's the good of it?" he demanded, in a discontented voice.

      "What's the good of the catechism?" exclaimed the deacon, shocked.

      "It'll l'arn you your duties. It'll benefit your immortal soul."

      "I don't care if it will," said Sam, perversely. "What do I care about my soul? It never did me no good."

      "Did you ever see such a heathen, Martha?" said the deacon, in despair, turning to his wife.

      "You'll be sorry you ever took him," said Mrs. Hopkins, shaking her head.

      "Set down in the corner, and l'arn your lesson, Samuel," said the old man.

      Sam looked undecided whether to obey or not, but under the circumstances he thought it best to obey. He began to read the catechism, but it did not interest him. His eyes were not long fixed on the printed page. They moved about the room, following the movements of Mrs. Hopkins as she cleared off the table. He saw her take the pie and place it in the closet. His eyes glistened as he caught sight of an entire pie on the lower shelf, designed, doubtless, for to-morrow's supper.

      "I wish I had it," he thought to himself. "Wouldn't it be jolly?"

      Pretty soon the deacon took his hat and cane and went out. Then Mrs. Hopkins went into the next room, and Sam was left alone. There was a fine chance to escape, and Sam was not slow in availing himself of it. He dropped the catechism on the floor, seized his hat, and darted out of the room, finding his way out of the house through the front door. He heaved a sigh of relief as he found himself out in the open air. Catching sight of the deacon in a field to the right, he jumped over a stone wall to the left, and made for a piece of woods a short distance away.

      It was not Sam's intention to run away. He felt that it would be foolish to leave a house where he got such good suppers, but he wanted a couple of hours of freedom. He did not mean to return till it was too late to study the catechism any longer.

      "What's the use of wearin' out a feller's eyes over such stuff?" he thought.

      It is not necessary to follow Sam's movements through the evening. At nine o'clock he opened the front door, and went in, not exactly abashed, but uncertain how the deacon would receive him.

      Deacon Hopkins had his steel-bowed spectacles on, and was engaged in reading a good book. He looked up sternly as Sam entered.

      "Samuel, where have you been?" he asked.

      "Out in the woods," said Sam, coolly.

      "Didn't I tell you to get your catechism?" demanded the old man, sternly.

      "So I did," said Sam, without blushing.

      "I am afraid you are telling a lie. Mrs. Hopkins said she went out of the room a minute, and when she came back you were gone. Is that so?"

      "Yes, I guess so," said Sam.

      "Then how did you have time to l'arn your lesson?"

      "It wasn't long," muttered Sam.

      "Come here, and I will see if you know anything about it."

      The deacon took the book, laid it flat on his lap, and read out the first question, looking inquiringly at Sam for the answer.

      Sam hesitated, and scratched his head. "I give it up," said he.

      "Do you think I am askin' conundrums?" said the deacon, sternly.

      "No," said Sam, honestly.

      "Why don't you know?"

      "Because I can't tell."

      "Because you didn't study it. Aint you ashamed of your ignorance?"

      "What's the use of knowin'?"

      "It is very important," said the deacon, impressively. "Now I will ask you the next question."

      Sam broke down, and confessed that he didn't know.

      "Then you told me a lie. You said you studied the lesson."

      "I didn't understand it."

      "Then you should have studied longer. Don't you know it is wicked to lie?"

      "A feller can't tell the truth all the time," said Sam, as if he were stating a well-known fact.

      "Certainly he can," said

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