Peter sat down on the end of the bench and regarded him soberly. He was uncertain in his own mind how he ought to deal with the case, but that it must be dealt with, and drastically, he knew. Peter was by no means a Puritan. The boy could accomplish any amount of mischief--go crabbing instead of to Sunday-school, play fox and geese over the newly sprouted garden, break windows and hotbeds, steal cake from the pantry and peaches from Judge Benedict's orchard, and Peter would always shield him. His code of morals was broad, but where he did draw the line he drew it tight. Bobby's sins must be the sins of a gentleman, and Peter's definition of "gentleman" was old fashioned and strict. Bobby grew restless under the silent scrutiny. "What do you want?" he asked crossly. "If you don't look out you'll make me cut my hand." He closed the large blade with an easy air of unconcern, and opening a smaller one, fell to work again. The knife was equipped with five blades and a corkscrew; it was one of the dignities to which Bobby had attained on his recent birthday. Peter stretched out his hand and, taking possession of the knife, snapped it shut and returned it. "Put it in yer pocket an' pay attention to me." "Oh, don't bother, Pete. I'm busy." "Your father will be home before long," said Peter, significantly. "Well, fire ahead. What do you want?" "Ye told a lie--two o' them, to be accurate. Ye were one o' them boys that shot the chicken an' ye did have the pistol." "I didn't shoot his old chicken; it was Bert Holliday. And anyway he didn't mean to; it flew straight in front of the target just as he fired." "He had no business to be firin'. But it's not the chicken I'm mournin' about; it's the lie." "It's none of your business," said Bobby, sullenly. "Then I'll make it me business! Either ye goes to yer father an' tells him ye lied, or I will. Ye can take yer choice." "Peter," Bobby began to plead, "he'll not give me the mustang--you know he won't. I didn't mean to touch the revolver, but Bert forgot his air rifle, and the boys were waiting to have a shooting match. I won't do it again--honest, Peter--hope to die." "It ain't no use, Master Bobby. Ye can't wheedle me. Ye told a lie an' ye've got to be punished. Gentlemen don't tell lies--leastways, not direct. They hires a lawyer like Judge Benedict to do it for them. If ye keep on ye'll grow to be like the Judge yerself." Bobby smiled wanly. The Judge, as Peter knew well, was his chiefest aversion, owing to an unfortunate meeting under the peach trees. "You've told lots of lies yourself!" "There's different kinds o' lies," said Peter, "an' this is the kind that I don't tell. It ain't that I'm fond o' carrying tales," he added, "but that I wants to see ye grow up to be a thoroughbred." Bobby changed his tactics. "Father'll feel awfully bad; I hate to have him find it out." Peter suppressed a grin. "Boys ought always to be considerate o' their fathers' feelin's," he conceded.