The next morning, when Mr. Leatherby kindled the fire in his shoe-shop, he found that the stove would not draw. The smoke, instead of going up the funnel, poured into the room, and the fire, instead of roaring and blazing, smouldered a few moments and finally died out. He kindled it again, opened the windows to let in the air, but it would not burn. He got down on his knees and blew till he was out of breath, got his eyes filled with smoke, which made the tears roll down his cheeks. The shop was a mere box of a building, with a low roof; so he climbed up and looked into the chimney and found it stuffed with newspapers. Pulling them out, he saw a crumpled piece of writing-paper. He smoothed it out. "Ah! what is this?" said he; and, putting on his spectacles, he read, "North 69 deg. East, 140 rods to a stake; South 87 deg. West, 50 rods to an oak-tree." "That is Paul Parker's figuring, I reckon. I always knew that Paul loved fun, but I didn't think he would do this!" said Mr. Leatherby to himself, more in sorrow than in anger. "Good morning, Mr. Leatherby," said Philip, coming up at that moment. "What is the matter with your chimney?" "Some of you boys have been playing a trick upon me." "Who, I should like to know, is there in New Hope mean enough to do that?" Philip asked. "Whose figuring do you call that?" Mr. Leatherby asked, presenting the paper. "Paul Parker's, as sure as I am alive! You ought to expose him, Mr. Leatherby." "I don't like to say anything against him. I always liked him; but I didn't think he would cut up such a shine as this," Mr. Leatherby replied. "Appearances are deceptive. It won't do for me to say anything against Paul, for people might say I was envious; but if I were you, Mr. Leatherby, I'd put him over the road," said Philip, walking on. Mr. Leatherby thought the matter over all day, as he sat in his dingy shop, which was only a few rods from Mr. Chrome's, where Paul was painting wagons, singing snatches of songs, and psalms and hymns. Mr. Leatherby loved to hear him. It made the days seem shorter. It rested him when he was tired, cheered him when he was discouraged. It was like sunshine in his soul, for it made him happy. Thinking it over, and hearing Paul's voice so round, clear, full, and sweet, he couldn't make up his mind to tell anybody of the little joke. "After all, he didn't mean anything in particular, only to have a little fun with me. Boys will be boys,"--and so Mr. Leatherby, kind old man that he was, determined to keep it all to himself. When Paul passed by the shop on his way home at night, he said, "Good evening, Mr. Leatherby," so pleasantly and kindly, that Mr. Leatherby half made up his mind that it wasn't Paul who did it, after all, but some of the other boys,--Bob Swift, perhaps, a sly, cunning, crafty fellow, who was one of Philip's cronies. "It would be just like Bob, but not at all like Paul, and so I won't say anything to anybody," said the mild old man to himself.