"Peter," Bobby began to plead, "he 'll not give me the mustang—you know he won't. I did n't mean to touch the revolver, but Bert forgot his air rifle, and the boys were waiting to have a shooting match. I won't do it again—honest, Peter—hope to die."
"It ain't no use, Master Bobby. Ye can't wheedle me. Ye told a lie an' ye 've got to be punished. Gentlemen don't tell lies—leastways, not direct. They hires a lawyer like Judge Benedict to do it for them. If ye keep on ye 'll grow to be like the Judge yerself."
Bobby smiled wanly. The Judge, as Peter knew well, was his chiefest aversion, owing to an unfortunate meeting under the peach trees.
"You 've told lots of lies yourself!"
"There's different kinds o' lies," said Peter, "an' this is the kind that I don't tell. It ain't that I'm fond o' carrying tales," he added, "but that I wants to see ye grow up to be a thoroughbred."
Bobby changed his tactics.
