"Yes'm." Fudge slowly closed the door, with himself on the outside. The die was cast. He tried to comfort himself with the assurance that if his mother hadn't spoken just when she did he would have asked permission to go to the "movies." It wasn't his fault. He passed out of the yard whistling blithely enough, but before he had reached the corner the whistle had died away. He wished he had told the whole truth. He was more than half inclined to go back, but it was getting later every minute and he had to walk eight blocks to the library and five back to the theater, and it would take him several minutes to exchange his book, and Perry might not be ready
Fudge was so intent on all this that he passed the front of the Merrick house, on the corner, without, as usual, announcing his transit with a certain peculiar whistle common to him and his friends. He walked hurriedly, determinedly, trying to keep his thoughts on the pleasure in store, hoping they'd have a rattling good melodrama on the bill to-night and would present less of the "sentimental rot" than was their custom. But Conscience stalked at Fudge's side, and the further he got from home the more uncomfortable he felt in his mind; and his thoughts refused to stay placed on the "movies." But while
he paused in crossing G Street to let one of the big
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