"What do you say to that?" he demanded.

"Clarence told the truth, father," I replied.

"He did, eh? What do you mean by running away from school in this manner?"
He grew very angry, catching me by the shoulder, gave me such a jerk that
my books, which I had under my arm, went flying in all directions. "Why
have you not been to school?" he said thickly.

"I was working, but I did not intend to deceive you father."

"Working! Working! Where have you been working?"

"At Mr. Hazleton's box factory."

"At a _what_ factory?"

"_Box_ factory."

"How much did you earn?" he growled, watching me closely to see if I told
the truth.

"Five dollars a week," I said timidly, feeling all the time that he was
exacting from me a confession that I wished, on his account, to keep
secret.

"Five dollars a week! Where is the money? Show me the money!" he persisted
incredulously.

"I cannot, father. I do not have it."