"I wouldn't make such a promise again, if I were you, Joel," observed old
Mr. King, gathering up the small, brown hand in one of his own; "it might
be a little awkward to keep it, you know. Now, then, here we are,"--turning
in at the writing-room. "Well, say no more, but fly at your task," and he
seated himself in the big chair before the writing-table and took up his
pen.
Thus left to himself, Joel went slowly over to the set of shelves in the
alcove, from which Frick's summons at the door had called him. There were
several volumes on the floor, and a blank book and some sheets of paper,
showing clearly Joe's favorite method of setting to work on making lists,
while sprawled on the carpet with all his paraphernalia around him. He
threw himself down amongst it all, prowled around for his pencil, which,
suddenly dropped when he had deserted his task, had taken the opportunity
to roll off by itself. Now it added to his discomfiture by hiding.
"Plague take it!" He scowled, a black little frown settling on his brow.
"Where is it?"--prowling around frantically on the carpet, with hasty
hands.
"What is it, Joe?" Old Mr. King, though apparently very busy over at the
writing-table, seemed to be quite well aware of everything that went on in
the alcove.
"I've lost my pencil," announced Joe, in a dismal voice.
"Oh, well, that's not so bad as it might be," said the old gentleman; "come
over and get another, and by and by you can find your own.
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