"Let me see that bag," snapped the old man.

"The bag is mine--it belonged to my mother," explained the boy.
"Surely you don't object to my taking it with me?"

"You're welcome to it, and good riddance; but I'm going to find
out what's inside of it."

"You surely don't think I would take anything that doesn't belong
to me--you can't mean that?"

"Ain't saying what I mean. Hand over that bag."

With burning cheeks, Phil did as he was bid, his unwavering eyes
fixed almost sternly on the wrathful face of Abner Adams.

"Huh!" growled the old man, tumbling the contents out on the
floor, shaking Phil's clothes to make sure that nothing was
concealed in them.

Apparently satisfied, the old man threw the bag on the floor with
an exclamation of disgust. Phil once more gathered up his
belongings and stowed them away in the satchel.

"Turn out your pockets!"

"There is nothing in them, Uncle, save some trinkets of my own
and my mother's picture."