etfully, rubbing his ear with a black
and oily lump of cotton waste, "why didn't I think of that, now? I was
trying to think of something as 'ud amuse him only this morning, and I
couldn't think of anything better than a guinea-pig. And a young chap I
know's going to fetch that over for him this tea-time."

"How lovely! A real live guinea! He will be pleased. But he'd like the
Magazines as well."

"That's just it," said Perks. "I've just sent the pick of 'em to
Snigson's boy--him what's just getting over the pewmonia. But I've lots
of illustrated papers left."

He turned to the pile of papers in the corner and took up a heap six
inches thick.

"There!" he said. "I'll just slip a bit of string and a bit of paper
round 'em."

He pulled an old newspaper from the pile and spread it on the table, and
made a neat parcel of it.

"There," said he, "there's lots of pictures, and if he likes to mess 'em
about with his paint-box, or coloured chalks or what not, why, let him.
_I_ don't want 'em."

"You're a dear," said Bobbie, took the parcel, and started. The papers
were heavy, and when she had to wait at the level-crossing while a train
went by, she rested the parcel on the top of the gate. And idly she
looked at the printing on the paper that the parcel was wrapped in.

Suddenly she clutched the parcel tighter and bent her head over it. It
seemed like some horrible dream. She read on--the bottom of the column
was torn off--she could read no farther.

She never remembered how she got home. But she went on tiptoe to her
room and locked the door. Then she undid the parcel and read that
printed column again, sitting on the edge of her bed, her hands and feet
icy cold and her face burning. When she had read all there was, she drew
a long, uneven breath.

"So now I know," she said.

What she had read was headed, 'End of the Trial. Verdict. Sentence.'

The name of the man who had been tried was the name of her Father.
The verdict was 'Guilty.' And the sentence was 'Five years' Penal
Servitude.'

"Oh, Daddy," she whispered, crushing the paper hard, "it's not true--I
don't believe it. You never did it! Never, never, never!"

There was a hammering on the door.

"What is it?" said Bobbie.

"It's me," said the voice of Phyllis; "tea's ready, and a boy's brought
Peter a guinea-pig. Come along down."

And Bobbie had to.

Chapter XI. The hound in the red jersey.

Bobbie knew the secret now. A sheet of old newspa