“Yes’m.”

The old lady was bending down, Tom watching, with interest emphasized by anxiety. Too late he divined her “drift.” The handle of the telltale tea-spoon was visible under the bed-valance. Aunt Polly took it, held it up.

Tom winced, and dropped his eyes. Aunt Polly raised him by the usual handle — his ear — and cracked his head soundly with her thimble.

“Now, sir, what did you want to treat that poor dumb beast so, for?”

“I done it out of pity for him — because he hadn’t any aunt.”

“Hadn’t any aunt! — you numskull. What has that got to do with it?”