"Very well, Tommy," said Mr. Peter Hope, "you can sleep here to-
night. Go with Mrs. Postwhistle, and she'll show you your room."

The black eyes shone.

"You're going to give me a trial?"

"We'll talk about all that to-morrow." The black eyes clouded.

"Look here. I tell you straight, it ain't no good."

"What do you mean? What isn't any good?" demanded Peter.

"You'll want to send me to prison."

"To prison!"

"Oh, yes. You'll call it a school, I know. You ain't the first
that's tried that on. It won't work." The bright, black eyes were
flashing passionately. "I ain't done any harm. I'm willing to
work. I can keep myself. I always have. What's it got to do with
anybody else?"

Had the bright, black eyes retained their expression of passionate
defiance, Peter Hope might have retained his common sense. Only
Fate arranged that instead they should suddenly fill with wild
tears. And at sight of them Peter's common sense went out of the
room disgusted, and there was born the history of many things.