“No, sir,” replied Oscar, but it came out with the utmost reluctance.

“Certainly not,” said the teacher; “it is dishonest to take advantage of another’s ignorance, or simplicity, or necessity, in a bargain.  Overreaching in trade is often dignified with the name of shrewdness, but, for all that, it is contrary to the rule of honesty.  And now I have one more question to ask you:  After you have discovered how your comrade has imposed upon you, what should you expect of him?”

Oscar made no reply.

“Should you not expect him to make full restitution?”

“Yes, sir,” he replied, in a scarcely audible voice.

“Of course you would,” continued the master; “and if he refused, he would deserve double punishment.”

Several other forms of dishonesty were then considered, such as the following;—­withholding from another his just dues; contracting debts which we know we cannot pay, or making promises we know we cannot fulfil; wasting or injuring the property of others, &c.  In concluding, the teacher remarked, that it was not very pleasant to feel that we had been wronged and cheated; but there was another feeling, a thousand-fold more to be dreaded—­the feeling that we have wronged and cheated others.  And so ended the moral lesson for that morning.

The particular bearing of this lesson upon Oscar, and the pertinency of the “case” he was called to decide upon, were not generally known to the class, though their suspicions might have been somewhat excited by his confusion, and his reluctance to answer the questions put to him.  The teacher had been informed of Oscar’s dishonest bargain by the boy who suffered from it, and he chose this way to impress upon him the immorality of the transaction.  He concluded, however, to give him an opportunity to make a voluntary restitution, and so no further reference was made to the matter.

Oscar was wise enough to heed the warning.  Before night, the brass dog-collar and the ivory pocket-comb were returned to their rightful owner.

CHAPTER XII.

SICKNESS.

“You have got a bad cold, Oscar,” said Mrs. Preston one evening towards the close of winter, as Oscar came in from his play, and was seized with a coughing spell.  “And no wonder,” she added, on glancing at his feet; “why, do you see how wet the bottoms of your pantaloons are?  I should like to know where you have been, to get so wet—­it is strange that you will not keep out of the water.”

“I should like to know how anybody could help getting wet feet this weather, with the slosh up to your knees,” said Oscar.

“I could walk about the streets all day without going over my shoes,” replied his mother, “and so could you, if you tried to.  I believe you go through all the mud-puddles you can find, just to see how wet you can get.  But it won’t do for you to sit down in this condition.  Take off your wet boots, and run up stairs and put on a pair of dry pantaloons and some dry stockings, and then you may sit down to the fire and warm yourself.”