“I am sorry for that,” said Mr. Hofford, gravely, “because all boys ought to have time for play.  I thought I saw you playing football yesterday?”

“Oh, I play some,” admitted Roswell, “but nothing like I want to.  I wish I had nothing to do but play, like Rollo there.”

“You’d soon get tired of living a dog’s life,” said Mrs. Hofford, with an amused look.

“No, I wouldn’t,” said Roswell, confidently.  “I never had enough play.”

“Very well,” said Mr. Hofford, with a queer smile.  “To-morrow is Tuesday; suppose you start in and play.”

“And not do any work?”

“Certainly not; no work for yourself, or anybody else.”

Roswell looked at his father, as if disbelieving his ears.

“I mean it,” continued Mr. Hofford.  “I will tend to the horse and cow, Jennie will do the house chores and run the errands, and your mother will do the rest.  You will have nothing to do but play, and I hope you will enjoy yourself.”

“I’m sure I shall!” declared Roswell, joyfully.

When he opened his eyes the next morning it was bright daylight, and he sprang out of bed very hurriedly, forgetting the changed condition of affairs.  Then, as recollection dawned upon him, he dressed slowly and went down stairs to breakfast.

There was no one there but his mother, who said “Good-morning!” pleasantly.

“My!” he exclaimed, glancing at the clock; “if it isn’t ten minutes to nine!  I’ll be late for school.”

“You are not to go to school,” said his mother, quietly.  “Going to school is not play.”

“But I’ll miss my promotion, if I don’t go,” pleaded Roswell, aghast at the thought.

“Can’t help it.  You must not do anything but play.”

Roswell laughed.

“Very well,” he said, lightly.

Then he finished his breakfast in silence and strolled out.

He walked around the yard for five or ten minutes, whistling shrilly; took a look in the barn at Prince and then set off to the village.  It was almost deserted, the boys being at school—­all but a few loaferish fellows, with whom Roswell did not care to associate.

About ten o’clock he returned home, got a book and read until dinner-time.

Somehow he did not have much of an appetite, and after dinner he took his fishing tackle and went off to the creek.

When he returned at dusk, he had a string of perch.

“Where’s my fish-knife, Jennie?” he asked, as he laid the fish on the bench in the wash-house.

“Jennie will clean the fish, Roswell,” called out his mother.  “Catching fish is play; cleaning them is work.”

“Pshaw!” said Roswell, impatiently.

He was rather proud of his ability to prepare fish for the pan.

At supper Mr. Hofford asked him how he was enjoying himself, and Roswell answered that he was doing very well.  After supper, when the table was cleared, he got out a lot of traps and set to work on an electrical machine he was trying to make, but his father promptly checked him.