“Well, Peter, what can I do for you this mawnin’?” he asked, jovially.  He was that sort.

“You can let me alone, please,” said Peter, succinctly.

“Eh?  What’s that?” The large man stared at the little man.

“I said you can let me alone, please,” said Peter, patiently.  “I hear it’s you doing most of the talking about sending me to an orphanage.”

“I try to do my duty as a man and a Christian,” said the vestryman, piously.  “You can’t be allowed to run loose, Peter.  ’T aint right.  ’T ain’t moral.  ’T ain’t Christian.  You’ll be better off in a good orphan-asylum, bein’ taught what you’d ought to learn.  That’s the place for you, Peter!”

“I want to stay in my own house,” said Peter.

“Shucks!  You can’t eat and wear a measly little house, can you?  That’s what I’m askin’ the town right now.  Sure you can’t!  The thing to do is to sell that place for what it’ll fetch, sock the money in bank for you, and it’ll be there—­with interest—­when you’ve grown up and aim to start in business for yourself.  Yes, sir.  That’s my idea.”

“Mr. McMasters,” said Peter, evenly, “I want you to know one thing sure and certain.  If you send me to any orphan-asylum, I’ll send you to some place where you’ll be better off, too, sir.”

“Meanin’?”

Peter Champneys shot at the stout vestryman a glance like the thrust of a golden spear.

“The cemetery, Mr. McMasters,” said he, with the deadly South Carolina gentleness.

The two stared at each other.  It wasn’t the boy’s glance that fell first.

“Threatenin’ me, hey?  Threatenin’ a father of a family, are you?” Mr. McMasters licked his lips.

“Oh, no, Mr. McMasters, I’m not threatening you, at all.  I’m just telling you what’ll happen.”

The vestryman reflected.  He knew the Champneyses.  They had all been men of their word.  And fine marksmanship ran in the family.  He had seen this same Peter handle a shot-gun:  you’d think the little devil had been born with a gun in his fist!  He had a thumb-nail vision of Mrs. McMasters collecting his life-insurance—­getting new clothes, and the piano she had been plaguing him for, too, and her mother always in the house with her.  He turned purple.

“You—­why, you beggarly whelp!  You—­you damned Champneys!” he roared.  Peter met the angry eyes unflinchingly.

“I reckon you’d better understand I’m not going to any orphan-asylum, Mr. McMasters.  I’m going to stay right here at home.  And you are not going to get my cove lot,” he added shrewdly.

“What do I care where you go?  And who wants your old strip of sand and cockspurs?  Get to hell out o’ here!” yelled Mr. McMasters, violently.