onest
man: you can tell that to all the fellers you like."

"An' be told I'm a blamed liar? Not much."

Mrs. Kimper seemed to be in a mournful revery, and when finally she
spoke it was in the voice of a woman talking to herself, as she said,--

"After all I've been layin' up in my mind about places where there was
potatoes an' chickens an' pigs an' even turkeys that could be got an'
nobody'd be any the wiser! How will we ever get along through the
winter?"

"The Lord will provide," croaked Tom, who had often sat under the
church window during a revival meeting.

"If He don't, we'll do without," said Sam, "but I guess we won't suffer
while I can work."

"Dad converted!" muttered Tom. "Dad converted! d'ye hear that?" said
he, hitting his brother to attract attention. "I must go down to the
hotel an' tell Jane; she'll steal me a glass of beer for it. Converted!
I'll be ashamed to look the boys in the face."

CHAPTER III.

The Kimper family thinned out, numerically, as soon as the frugal
evening meal was despatched. Tom and Billy disappeared separately
without remark; Mary put on a small felt hat which added a rakish air
to her precocious face, and said she was going to the hotel to see if
sister Jane had any news. Half an hour later, the cook, all the
chamber-maids, waiters, bar-keepers, and stable-boys at the hostelry
were laughing and jeering, in which they were led by Jane, as Mary told
of her father's announcement that he had been converted and would have
no more stealing done in the interest of the family larder. The fun
became so fast and furious that it was obliged to end in sheer
exhaustion; so when Tom came in an hour later, he was unable to revive
it sufficiently to secure the stolen glass of beer which he had
coveted.

Sam Kimper did not seem to notice the disappearance of the more active
portion of the family. Taking the baby in his arms, he sat with closed
eyes while his wife cleared the table. Finally he said,--

"Nan, ain't you got nothin' else to do?"

"Nothin', that I know of," said the wife.

"Come an' set down alongside o' me, then, an' let me tell you about
somethin' that come about while I was in the penitentiary. Nan, a man
that used to come there Sundays found me a-cryin' in my cell one
Sunday; I couldn't help it, I felt so forlorn an' kind o' gone like.
I'd felt that way lots o' times before, when I was out an' around, but
then I could get over it by takin' a drink. There's a