“Sorry, sir. I destroyed it.” Blackie would vouch for that, if necessary. “I see.” The head master looked at Junior in silence, then he said with a not unkind smile. “Junior, I’m very fond of your father. He’s one of the finest fellows that ever lived.” “Sure,” said Junior. “I’ve known him longer than you have. I don’t think he ever did anything dishonourable in his life.” “Of course not.” What was coming? He must keep his head now. “You know how your father would feel if I couldn’t honestly say the same thing about you?” “Why, what do you mean, Mr. Fielding?” “Just tell me the truth, Junior, and it needn’t ever go out of this room. Does your father ever write to you at all?” “Why, sir, you don’t think my father is the sort who wouldn’t write to his own son, do you?” Then the boy added desperately, “I don’t see why you all want to make him out a piker.” “Did your father write the letter describing the fight with the python?” “Look here, Mr. Fielding, you people don’t understand. I’m better friends with my father than most boys. You see, my mother’s dead and all that. So--well, don’t you see, he sort of takes it out in writing me long letters. He thought that stuff about the python would amuse me.” He was a loyal little liar and the head master admired him for it. But it wouldn’t do. Mr. Fielding opened a drawer of his desk and took out an old magazine. “Does your father take the _National Geographic_?” Junior crumpled up. “I don’t know, sir.” He was in for it now--caught. Mr. Fielding opened the magazine and pointed out a marked page to Junior. “Junior, I know you won’t accuse an honourable gentleman like your father of stealing another man’s writings, passing them off as his own. There’s an ugly name for that. It’s called plagiarism.” He had tried to defend his father, and look at the result! “I wrote those letters, Mr. Fielding.” “I knew that,” said Mr. Fielding gently. “You won’t do it again, though, will you, Junior?” “Hardly.” “That’s all. You may go now.” Junior turned at the door. He knew that this was not all. He was being let down too easily. “Mr. Fielding----” he began, and hesitated. “It won’t be necessary for you to tell my father, will it?” “I won’t tell him, but you will.” “No, sir, I could never do that.” “Well, we’ll see. Good night, Junior.” So he could write no more letters to exhibit to the boys. He explained that his father had gone on a long expedition inland. No chance for mail for months. They made no comment, but the whole house knew that he had been summoned “to the office.” They suspected something, but they would never discover the truth from him. He would bluff it out to the end. But now, more than ever, he wanted letters from father, even if written by himself. He had formed the habit. They somehow did him good. They made him feel that his father was interested in him.