stuff as this," he added, with a glance of disgust at what he held in his
hand. "It may go into the kitchen fire."

"Mrs. Scrimp never burns the least little bit of paper, papa," said Max.

"Indeed! Why not?" asked his father, with an amused smile.

"She says it is wicked waste, because it is better than rags for the
paper-makers."

"Ah! well, then, we will tear these into bits and let them go to the
paper-makers."

Max was standing by his father's side. "Papa," he said, with a roguish
look into his father's face, "don't you think you would enjoy reading them
first?"

The captain laughed. "No, my son," he said; "I have not the slightest
inclination to read them. Bring me that waste basket and you may help me
tear them up."

They began the work of destruction, Max taking the paper, the captain the
book his son had been reading. Presently something in it attracted his
attention; he paused and glanced over several pages one after the other,
till Max began to think he had become interested in the story. But no; at
that instant he turned from it to him, and Max was half frightened at the
sternness of his look.

"My son," he said, "I am astonished and deeply grieved that you could read
and enjoy anything like this, for it is full of profanity; and reading or