Mr. Morehouse went home raging. His boy, who had been awaiting the
guinea-pigs, knew better than to ask him for them. He was a normal boy and
therefore always had a guilty conscience when his father was angry. So the
boy slipped quietly around the house. There is nothing so soothing to a
guilty conscience as to be out of the path of the avenger. Mr. Morehouse
stormed into the house. "Where's the ink?" he shouted at his wife as soon
as his foot was across the doorsill.
Mrs. Morehouse jumped, guiltily. She never used ink. She had not seen the
ink., nor moved the ink, nor thought of the ink, but her husband's tone
convicted her of the guilt of having borne and reared a boy, and she knew
that whenever her husband wanted anything in a loud voice the boy had been
at it.
"I'll find Sammy," she said meekly.
When the ink was found Mr. Morehouse wrote rapidly, and he read the
completed letter and smiled a triumphant smile.
"That will settle that crazy Irishman!" he exclaimed. "When they get that
letter he will hunt another job, all right!"
A week later Mr.
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