rong boy in the wagon.

The distance to Oakford steadily diminished, though Mr. Bickford's horse
was a slow one. At length it had dwindled to half a mile.

"Now I don't care if he does find out who I am," thought William. "It
ain't but a little way home now, and I shouldn't mind walking." Still
his own house was rather beyond Mr. Bickford's, and it was just as well
to ride the whole way, if he could escape detection so long.

"Where did you learn them circus performances, Christopher?" suddenly
asked the blacksmith, turning once more in his seat.

By this time they were within a few rods of the blacksmith's yard, and
William became bold, now that he had nothing to lose by it.

"My name isn't Christopher," he answered in his usual tone.

"Your name isn't Christopher? That's what your uncle told me."

"I think you are mistaken," said William quietly.

"What's got into the boy? Is he goin' to deny his own name? What is your
name, then?"

"My name is William Morris," was the distinct response.

"What!" exclaimed the blacksmith in amazement.

"I think you ought to know me, Mr. Bickford. I worked for you some time,
you know."

"Take off your hat, and let me look at your face!" said Aaron Bickford,
sternly.

William laughed as he complied with the request. It was now rather
lighter, and the blacksmith, peering into his face, saw that it was
indeed true--that the boy on the back seat was not Kit Watson at all,
but his ex-apprentice, William Morris.

"It's Bill Morris, by the living jingo!" he exclaimed. "What do you say
to that, Sarah?"

"You're a master hand at managing boys, Aaron," said his wife
sarcastically.

"How came you in the wagon, Bill Morris?" demanded Bickford, not caring
to answer his wife.

"The giant put me in," answered William.

"Where is that boy, Christopher Watson?"

"I expect he is travelin' with the show, Mr. Bickford."

"Who put you up to this mean trick?" demanded the blacksmith,
wrathfully.

"Kit Watson."

"I've got an account to settle with you, William Morris. I s'pose you
think you've done something pretty smart."

"I think he has, Aaron," said Mrs. Bickford, who seemed to take a
malicious pleasure in opening her husband's wounds afresh.

"Mrs. Bickford, it isn't very creditable in you to triumph over your
husband, just after he's been spendin' fifty cents for your amusement."

"Goodness knows, Mr. Bickford, you don't often take me to shows. I guess
what you spend th