puzzled. Soon, however, he began to see light on the riddle.
His lips parted in a grin; the grin became a chuckle.

"Humph! That goes ahead of anything I ever had the brains to
think up when I was a boy," laughed the man. "That's a good one!
It sounded for all the world as though someone had smashed one
of my windows with a brick-bat. Ha, ha, ha! That's an all right
one! I'd be willing to shake hands with the boy who put up that
joke on me. How about my own Timmy, I wonder? No; Timmy wouldn't
be smart enough for this one---but he may have smart friends.
I'll look up that young hopeful of mine!"

With that purpose in view, the lantern still in his hand, Mr.
Finbrink passed into the house and then up the back stairs. On
the next floor he pushed open the door of a room, holding the
lantern high as he scanned the bed.

There lay Master Timmy, covered only with a sheet, his head sunk
in the depths of a pillow, eyes tightly closed, and breathing
with almost mechanical rhythm.

"Oh, you're asleep, aren't you?" demanded his father, in a low,
ironical voice. "How long have you been asleep, Tim?"

But Timmy's only answer was the beginning of a snore.

"Are you very tired, Timmy?" continued his father craftily.

Still no answer.