The Imp and the Author
The Imp blushed and bit his lip. What he was about to say was not pleasant, but he felt that he owed it to his friend—confidence for confidence.
"When I've been—been real bad," he said, "and then ask to go and play with—with anybody, they'll say I can't. For—for a punishment, you know."
"I couldn't do that," said the Author, "because he doesn't ask. He goes and plays with them without asking!"
"Oh!" murmured the Imp. Then, respectfully, "He's pretty bad, isn't he?"
The Author nodded. "Yes, he's pretty bad," he said, almost in a whisper.
The Imp leaned his head against the Author's arm. He was getting very drowsy. The walk and the sun and the luncheon were telling on him. He felt very comfortable and perfectly safe with this big, troubled man. The Author put one arm around him and half lifted him on his lap. The Imp was nearly asleep, but he held himself awake long enough to offer his last suggestion.
"When I said I'd smash the glass that time,
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