Don't you think I'll get it?"
William looked down at her. Her blue eyes, big with apprehension, were
fixed on him, her little rosy lips were parted. William's heart
softened.
"I dunno," he said doubtfully. "You might, I s'pose. What d'you want
for Christmas?"
"You won't tell if I tell you?"
"No."
"Not to no one?"
"No."
"Say, 'Cross me throat.'"
William complied with much interest and stored up the phrase for
future use.
"Well," she sank her voice very low and spoke into his ear.
"Dad's comin' out Christmas Eve!"
She leant back and watched him, anxious to see the effect of this
stupendous piece of news. Her face expressed pride and delight,
William's merely bewilderment.
"Comin' out?" he repeated. "Comin' out of where?"
Her expression changed to one of scorn.
"_Prison_, of course! _Silly_!"
William was half offended, half thrilled.
"Well, I couldn't _know_ it was prison, could I? How could I _know_ it
was prison without bein' told? It might of been out of anything.
What--" in hushed curiosity and awe--"what was he in prison for?"
"Stealin'."
Her pride was unmistakable. William looked at her in disapproval.
"Stealin's wicked," he said virtuously.
"Huh!" she jeered, "you _can't_ steal! You're too soft! _Softie_! You
_can't_ steal without bein' copped fust go, you can't."
"I _could_!" he said indignantly. "And, any way, he got copped di'n't
he? or he'd not of been in prison, _so there_!"
"He di'n't get copped fust go.
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