Freckles, he blushes till you can hardly see his freckles, and feels of his hair. But he is so far in, now, that he can't get out. So he says: “Yes, sir, every time I get taken that way, so I go around in my sleep, Pa, I find my hair has been parted in the middle, the next morning.” “Uh-huh!” says his pa. “Let's see your ears.” And he pinched one of them while he was looking at it, and Freckles says, “Ouch!” “I thought so,” says his pa, but didn't say what he thought right away. Then pretty soon he says: “Those ears have been washed since that neck has.” “Yes, sir,” says Freckles. “Did you do that in your sleep, too?” “Yes, sir.” “Do you always do that when you have those spells of yours?” “Yes, sir, I always find my ears have been washed the next morning.” “But never your neck?” “Sometimes my neck has, and sometimes it hasn't,” said Freckles. “Uh-huh!” says his father, and took notice of me. I wagged my tail, and hung my tongue out, and acted friendly and joyful and happy. If you want to stay on good terms with grown-up humans, you have to keep them jollied along. I wasn't supposed to be in the house at night, anyhow, but I hoped maybe it would be overlooked. “Did you paint and dye that dog up that way?” asked Freckles's father. For of course the paint and dye they had put on me was still there. “Yes, sir,” says Freckles. “Nearly always when I come to myself in the morning I find I have dyed Spot.” “That's queer, too,” said his father. And then Harold says he dyes other dogs, too, and once when he woke up in the maple tree there were three strange dogs he had dyed at the foot of it. “Harold,” says his father, “how often do these spells come on?” Freckles, he says, some weeks they come often and some weeks hardly ever. “Humph!” says his father. “And when they come on, do you notice it is harder for you to tell the truth than at any other times?” Freckles says he doesn't know what he says in his sleep when those spells take him, nor even whether he talks in his sleep or not, but he guesses if he does talk in his sleep what he says would be talk about his dreams, but he can't remember what his dreams are, so he doesn't know whether what he says is true or not. “Uh-huh!” says his father. “Harold, do you own a gun?” “No, sir,” says Harold. Which is true, for he only owns a third interest in a gun. Tom Mulligan and Stevie Stevenson own the rest of it, and they are keeping it hid in the rafters of Tom Mulligan's barn till they can save money enough to get it fixed so it will shoot. “You haven't killed anybody in these spells of yours, have you, Harold?” asks his father. “No, sir,” says Freckles. “How would you know if you had?” asks his father. Freckles says there would be blood on him next morning, wouldn't there? “Not,” says his father, “if you stood at a distance and killed them with a gun.”