“Well, if a chap breaks the law without thinking, do you want him to ‘catch it’ just the same?” queried young Tim. “P’r’aps you have eaten short lobsters, yourself.” “Certainly, any person that breaks the law ought to be punished—every time,” replied the squire. “That’ll teach ’em a lesson. I’ll show you boys that when you come down here you’ve got to behave, or suffer for it.” “Because,” continued young Tim, “you were breaking the law, yourself, this afternoon—you and Harry.” Little Tim dodged back out of reach, in a hurry; for the squire made a dart at him, turning purple with anger. “What do you mean, you young scamp!” cried the squire. “Just let me get you by the ear once. Accusing me of breaking the law!” Little Tim’s nimble bare feet carried him out of the way of the squire’s arm. From a safe distance, he continued: “Yes, you and Harry were breaking the law, out there in the boat. You were tied up to one of the spar-buoys. They belong to the gov’ment. I’ve heard a fisherman say so; and it’s fifty dollars fine for any one to moor a boat to one of ’em. Didn’t you know that, squire?” Little Tim asked this question with a provoking innocence that nearly threw the squire into an apoplectic fit. “Pooh!” he exclaimed. “Pooh!” He turned a shade deeper purple, feigned to bluster for a moment, and then, realizing, with full and overwhelming consciousness, that what Little Tim had said was true, subsided, muttering to himself. The squire stood irresolutely in the street, holding the lobster in one hand, and glaring in a confused sort of way at Little Tim, who was now grinning provokingly. “Here, you young scamp,” he said at length, “come here.” Little Tim approached, discreetly. “Now,” said the squire, hemming and hawing, and evidently somewhat embarrassed, “on second thought, I—I’m going to let you youngsters off this time. I guess you didn’t intend to do anything wrong, did you?” “No, sir,” replied Little Tim, looking very sober and serious, but chuckling inwardly. “Well,” said the squire, “I think I won’t complain of you this time. We’ll just drop the whole affair. Of course a mere nominal fine of fifty dollars wouldn’t be anything to me; but I reckon twenty dollars would be kind of a pinch for you boys, and you have been working pretty industriously. You go along now—but look out, and don’t do anything of the sort again.” Little Tim bolted for the camp. The squire stood for a moment, scowling after the vanishing figure, and glancing out of the corner of an eye at his son, Harry, to see if that young man was treating the incident in its proper light—to wit, with respect to his father. Harry Brackett was discreetly serious. “Harry,” said the squire, finally, handing over the piece of incriminating evidence, “you take those lobsters up to the house and tell your mother to boil them for supper.” “The short one, too?” asked Harry Brackett.