In the front room sat his aunt, reading her Bible. She was just turning a page when Time stopped. In the dining-room was his uncle, finishing his luncheon. His mouth was open and his fork poised just before it, while his eyes were fixed upon the newspaper folded beside him. Jim helped himself to his uncle’s pie, and while he ate it he walked out to his prisoner. “There’s one thing I don’t understand,” said he. “What’s that?” asked Father Time. “Why is it that I’m able to move around while everyone else is—is—froze up?” “That is because I’m your prisoner,” answered the other. “You can do anything you wish with Time now. But unless you are careful you’ll do something you will be sorry for.” Jim threw the crust of his pie at a bird that was suspended in the air, where it had been flying when Time stopped. “Anyway,” he laughed, “I’m living longer than anyone else. No one will ever be able to catch up with me again.” “Each life has its allotted span,” said the old man. “When you have lived your proper time my scythe will mow you down.” “I forgot your scythe,” said Jim, thoughtfully. Then a spirit of mischief came into the boy’s head, for he happened to think that the present opportunity to have fun would never occur again. He tied Father Time to his uncle’s hitching post, that he might not escape, and then crossed the road to the corner grocery. The grocer had scolded Jim that very morning for stepping into a basket of turnips by accident. So the boy went to the back end of the grocery and turned on the faucet of the molasses barrel. “That’ll make a nice mess when Time starts the molasses running all over the floor,” said Jim, with a laugh. A little further down the street was a barber shop, and sitting in the barber’s chair Jim saw the man that all the boys declared was the “meanest man in town.” He certainly did not like the boys and the boys knew it. The barber was in the act of shampooing this person when Time was captured. Jim ran to the drug store, and, getting a bottle of mucilage, he returned and poured it over the ruffled hair of the unpopular citizen. “That’ll probably surprise him when he wakes up,” thought Jim. Near by was the schoolhouse. Jim entered it and found that only a few of the pupils were assembled. But the teacher sat at his desk, stern and frowning as usual. Taking a piece of chalk, Jim marked upon the blackboard in big letters the following words: “Every scholar is requested to yell the minute he enters the room. He will also please throw his books at the teacher’s head. Signed, Prof. Sharpe.” “That ought to raise a nice rumpus,” murmured the mischiefmaker, as he walked away.