him when he was tight," said Sam, confidentially. "Didn't he tear round then? He'd fling sticks of wood at my head. O jolly! Didn't I run? I used to hide under the bed when I couldn't run out of doors."
"Your father's dead and gone. I don't want to talk against him, but I hope you'll grow up a very different man. Do you think you will like to live with me?"
"I guess so," said Sam. "You live in a good house, where the rain don't leak through the roof on your head. You'll give me lots to eat, too; won't you?"
"You shall have enough," said the deacon, cautiously, "but it is bad to over-eat. Boys ought to be moderate."
"I didn't over-eat to home," said Sam. "I went one day without eatin' a crumb."
"You shall have enough to eat at my house, but you must render a return."
"What's that?"
"You must pay me for it."
"I can't; I aint got a cent."
"You shall pay me in work. He that does not work shall not eat."
"Have I got to work very hard?" asked Sam, anxiously.
"I will not task you beyond your strength, but I shall expect you to work faithfully. I work myself. Everybody works in my house."
Sam was occupied for a brief space in considering the great problem that connects labor and eating. Somehow it didn't seem quite satisfactory.
"I wish I was a pig!" he burst out, rather unexpectedly.
"Why?" demanded the deacon, amazed.
"Pigs have a better time than men and boys. They have all they can eat, and don't have to work for it nuther."
"I'm surprised at you," said the deacon, shocked. "Pigs are only brute animals. They have no souls. Would you be willing to give up your immortal soul for the sake of bein' idle, and doin' no work?"
"I don't know anything bout my immortal soul. What good does it do me?" inquired Sam.
"I declare! the boy's actilly gropin' in heathen darkness," said the deacon, beginning to think he had undertaken a tough job.
"What's that?" asked Sam, mystified.
"I haven't time to tell you now, but I must have a long talk with you some day. You aint had no sort of bringing up. Do you ever read the Bible?"
"No, but I've read the life of Cap'n Kidd. He was a smart man, though."
"Captain Kidd, the pirate?" asked the deacon, horrified.
"Yes. Wa'n't he a great man?"
"He calls a pirate a great man!" groaned the deacon.
"I think I'd like to be a pirate," said Sam, admiringly.
"Then you'd die on the gallus!" exclaimed the deacon with energy.
"No, I wouldn't. I wouldn't let 'em catch me," said Sam, confidently.
"I never heerd a boy talk so," said the deacon. "He's as bad as a—a Hottentot."
Deacon Hopkins had no very clear ideas as to the moral or physical condition of Hottentots, or where they lived, but had a general notion that they were in a benighted state, and the comparison seemed to him a good one. Not so to Sam.
"You're calling me names," he said, discontentedly. "You called me a Hottentot."
"I fear you are very much like those poor, benighted creatures, Samuel," said his new guardian; "but it isn't wholly your fault. You have never had any religious or moral instruction. This must be rectified. I shall buy you a catechism this very day."
"Will you?" asked Sam, eagerly, who, it must be explained, had an idea that a catechism was something good to eat.
"Yes, I'll stop at the store and get one."
They went into Pendleton's store—a general country variety store, in which the most dissimilar articles were kept for sale.
"Have you got a catechism?" asked the deacon, entering with Sam at his side.
"We've got just one left."
"How much is it?"
"Ten cents."
"I'll take it."
Sam looked on with interest till the clerk produced the article; then his countenance underwent a change.
"Why, it's a book," he said.
"Of course it is. It is a very good book, from which you will learn all about your duty, and your religious obligations."
"You needn't buy it. I don't want it," said Sam.
"Don't want the catechism!" said the deacon, not without anger.
"No, it aint any good."
"My boy, I know better what is good for you than you do. I shall buy you the catechism."
"I'd rather you'd get me that book," said Sam, pointing to a thin pamphlet copy of "Jack, the Giant-Killer."
But Deacon Hopkins persisted in making the purchase proposed.
"Are there any pictures in it?" asked Sam.
"No."
"Then I shan't like it."
"You don't know what is for your good. I hope you will be wiser in time. But here we are at the house. Come right in, and mind you wipe your feet."
This was Sam's first introduction into the Hopkins' household. He proved a disturbing element, as we shall presently see.
CHAPTER III. — A HARD CASE.
The first meal to which Sam sat down at the deacon's house was supper. It was only a plain supper—tea, bread and butter, and apple-pie; but to Sam, who was not used to regular meals of any kind, it seemed luxurious. He despatched slice after slice of bread, eating twice as much as any one else at the table, and after eating his share of the pie gazed hungrily at the single slice which remained on the plate, and asked for that also.
Deacon Hopkins thought it was time to interfere.
"You've had one piece a'ready," he said.
"I know it," said Sam; "but I'm hungry."
"I don't see how you can be. You've eat more than any of us."
"It takes a good deal to fill me up," said Sam, frankly.
"The
