‘You’d take that for the genuine thing, wouldn’t you?’ asked the grocer. ‘We――ell, I guess maybe it looks almost _too_ good,’ answered Pud cautiously. ‘I guess I’d sort of suspect it, Mr. Eph.’ ‘Would, eh?’ Mr. Billings chuckled as he restored the bill to the drawer. ‘Well, you wouldn’t need to, Pud. That bill’s one of Uncle Sam’s best.’ ‘What? Why, I thought you said――’ ‘You wanted to know what a counterfeit bill _looked_ like, Pud. Well, it looks just like a good one. If it didn’t, it wouldn’t fool any one, I guess.’ Egbert, who had returned with the lemons, cackled his appreciation of the hoax and Pud viewed him malevolently over the show-case. ‘Huh,’ he said. ‘Well, I guess no one couldn’t fool me with any old counterfeits! I guess――’ But just then Miss Snelling came in and Pud took up his purchases and departed, unpleasantly conscious of Egbert’s amused sniffles. Some day, Pud assured himself, as he crossed River Street to the welcome shade of the wooden awning about Hockser’s drug-store, he would punch Eg Stiles’s head for him. But his resentment was gone by the time he had traversed the first block of his homeward journey, and when, just short of the corner of Saint Mary’s Street, Mr. Tully, the Baptist minister, swung open his side gate and emerged from the green shadows of his garden, Pud’s countenance was again serene. Pud’s serenity, though, was largely external. Inside, he was mildly disturbed. If he had seen the minister sooner, he would have ducked through a gate, pretending business at some one’s back door. Not that Pud disliked Mr. Tully. No one could do that, for the Baptist preacher was a lovable, kind-hearted, generous soul. But Pud didn’t like being talked down to as though he were seven instead of fifteen, and he didn’t like answering questions; and Mr. Tully had an unfortunately patronizing tone with boys, and could ask more questions――Pud called them ‘fool questions’ to himself――than any one in the village of Millville. Then, too, Pud had another reason for not caring to converse with Mr. Tully this morning, which was that Pud had failed to attend Sunday School three days since. Mr. Tully might not have noted the fact, or might have forgotten it, but Pud would have preferred not meeting the preacher. ‘Good morning, Anson,’ greeted Mr. Tully, smiling very heartily. ‘I hope you are well this beautiful morning, my boy.’ ‘Yes, sir, thanks.’ Pud returned the smile with one of guileless sweetness and would have gone on. But Mr. Tully, beaming through his glasses, which, as usual, leaned at a rakish angle from his long, thin nose, continued: ‘Ah, returning from an errand to the store, doubtless.’ He glanced approvingly at the packages. ‘Being a help to your dear parents. Yes, yes. And how are they, my boy? Well, I trust? Your mother?’ ‘Yes, sir, _she’s_ all right.’ ‘Eh! You don’t mean that your father is――ah――indisposed?’ ‘He got up this morning, sir,’ replied Pud.