“Ain’t got no ’lasses, Massa,” said Bob, grinning from ear to ear. “No,” said Peter, “we havn’t got none; we lost it.” “Lost it! How on airth could you lose a barrel of molasses?” “We never had it,” said Bob. “Heavens and airth!” said the old man, turning first to Bob, and then to Peter, “what do you mean? What do you mean? _What_, _what_, w-h-a-t in the d-e-v-i-l _do_ you mean?” “Gracious, Marster! Mr. Wilkins, don’t swar, so,” said his wife, by way of helping Peter out. “_Swar!_” said the farmer, “do you call _that_ swarring? Darned ef I don’t say wussin that d’recley, ef they don’t tell me what they mean.” “Why, father,” said Peter, “I’ve lost it. I’ve lost the money.” “Well, and couldn’t you find it?” “I didn’t lose it that way,” said Peter. “You ain’t been a gamblin’ I hopes,” said the old man; “you ain’t been runnin’ agin none of them Pharo banks down to Augusty, is you?” “Bring me three thimbles,” said Peter, “and I’ll show you how I lost it.” The thimbles were brought, and Peter sat down to explain. It was a scene for a painter: there sat our hero, fumbling with the thimbles and the ball, but too much frightened to have performed the trick if he had known how; his father sat next him, with his chin upon his hands, looking as if undecided whether to reprimand him at once, or to give him a “fair showin’.” Mrs. Wilkins stood just behind her husband, winking and smiling, gesturing and hemming, in order to attract Peter’s attention, and indicate to him her willingness to stand between him and his father. The girls, who always sided with their mother, followed her example in this case. But their efforts to attract his attention were useless; they could not even catch his eye, so busy was he in trying to arrange the ball and thimbles; but every time he got them fixed, and told his father to guess, the old man would guess right, which, while it astonished Peter, incensed the old man against him. It looked so easy to him, that he could not help “blaming Pete fur bein’ sich a fool.” “Shorely,” said the farmer, after Peter had finished his explanation—“shorely it ain’t _possible_ that you’ve bin to Augusty _so often_, and didn’t know no better. Didn’t I tell you not to have nothin’ to do with them _Gimblit Fellers_? Ther ain’t one of ’em honest, not one. Like a fool, you’ve gone and lost jest four hundred and fifty-one dollars no cents. It ain’t the munny that I keers for, Peter, it’s you bein’ sich a fool—_four hundred and fifty-one dollars no cents_. I’ll go rite down to Augusty next Monday, and find this here Barker, and ef he don’t give up the munny, I’ll have a _say so_ (ca. sa.) taken agin him, and march him rite off to gaol—no deaf-allication about that. The theavin’ rascal, gwine about cheetin’ people’s sons outin four hundred and fifty-one dollars no cents? How often is you bin to Augusty, Peter?” “Sixteen times,” said Peter.