his hand and, taking possession of the knife, snapped it shut and returned it.
"Put it in yer pocket an' pay attention to me."
"Oh, don't bother, Pete. I'm busy."
"Your father will be home before long," said Peter, significantly.
"Well, fire ahead. What do you want?"
"Ye told a lie—two o' them, to be accurate. Ye were one o' them boys that shot the chicken an' ye did have the pistol."
"I did n't shoot his old chicken; it was Bert Holliday. And anyway he did n't mean to; it flew straight in front of the target just as he fired."
"He had no business to be firin'. But it's not the chicken I'm mournin' about; it's the lie."
"It's none of your business," said Bobby, sullenly.
"Then I 'll make it me business! Either ye goes to yer father an' tells him ye lied, or I will. Ye can take yer choice."
