fall in somehow. He’s melting the wax for anything to cast the impression on. It’s a thing that is done more often than you know—in one way or another. But if you’ve got pluck enough to stand the fire that will melt the wax again you lose the impression, Roddy.”
“I—don’t think I quite understand,” said Roddy.
“I don’t think you understand at all. Never mind. Just remember that neither Pipi nor the Devil himself can get hold of you unless you let him—by Jove!”
Movement had brought him before the carved head with the necktie bound on the forehead. A new sternness came over the thin face with the deep eyes.
“I’m not sure that you don’t deserve smacking. you immoral young imp!” he said. Then he whipped the rag off, and tore it in half with a twist such as is used to wring a chicken’s neck.
“Don’t!” cried Roddy. “Oh, I tried so hard to make it like! Oh, Murray!”
“Well, I’ll be hanged!” said Murray, and took him by the shoulders. “Do you want me to leave it there for the old brute to curse over?”
“It’s not yours. This is yours.” Roddy drew it out and Murray stared.
“Whose is this, then?”
“Mine! I—I came to put it there.”
