By and by Frank and his mother heard the clock striking an unusual number of times.

“What is the matter with the clock?” inquired Mrs. Frost.

“I don’t know,” said Frank unsuspiciously.

“It has struck ten times, and it is only four o’ clock.”

“I wonder if Pomp can have got at it,” said Frank, with a sudden thought.

He ran downstairs hastily.

Pomp heard him coming, and in his anxiety to escape detection, contrived to lose his balance and fall to the floor.  As he fell, he struck the table, on which a pan of sour milk had been placed, and it was overturned, deluging poor Pomp with the unsavory fluid.

Pomp shrieked and kicked most energetically.  His appearance, as he picked himself up, was ludicrous in the extreme.  His sable face was plentifully besprinkled with clotted milk, giving him the appearance of a negro who is coming out white in spots.  The floor was swimming in milk.  Luckily the dictionary had fallen clear of it, and so escaped.

“Is this the way you study?” demanded Frank, as sternly as his sense of the ludicrous plight in which he found Pomp would permit.

For once Pomp’s ready wit deserted him.  He had nothing to say.

“Go out and wash yourself.”

Pomp came back rather shamefaced, his face restored to its original color.

“Now, where is your book?”

Pomp looked about him, but, as he took good care not to look where he knew his book to be, of course he did not find it.

“I ‘clare, Mass’ Frank, it done lost,” he at length asserted.

“How can it be lost when you had it only a few minutes ago?”

“I dunno,” answered Pomp stolidly.

“Have you been out of the room?”

Pomp answered in the negative.

“Then it must be somewhere here.”

Frank went quietly to the corner of the room and took therefrom a stick.

“Now, Pomp,” he said, “I will give you just two minutes to find the book in.  If you don’t find it, I shall have to give you a whipping.”

Pomp looked at his teacher to see if he was in earnest.  Seeing that he was, he judged it best to find the book.

Looking into the work-box, he said innocently:  “I ’clare to gracious, Mass’ Frank, if it hasn’t slipped down yere.  Dat’s mi’ty cur’s, dat is.”

“Pomp, sit down,” said Frank.  “I am going to talk to you seriously.  What makes you tell so many lies?”

“Dunno any better,” replied Pomp, grinning.

“Yes, you do, Pomp.  Doesn’t your mother tell you not to lie?”

“Lor’, Mass’ Frank, she’s poor ignorant nigger.  She don’t know nuffin’.”

“You mustn’t speak so of your mother.  She brings you up as well as she knows how.  She has to work hard for you, and you ought to love her.”

“So I do, ’cept when she licks me.”

“If you behave properly she won’t whip you.  You’ll grow up a ‘poor, ignorant nigger’ yourself. if you don’t study.”