"It _is_ a beautiful pen," said
he, and then he tried to see how I would write. I should think he was a
pretty good penman. He made a great many flourishes with me, and wrote
his name several times. His name was John Smith, by the way, or at any
rate, that was the signature he made. "What a fine pen this is," said
he; "I never wrote with a better pen in my life. But it won't do for me
to keep it. I shall be found out, if I do. Oh, dear! I wish I had got it
without stealing it. I wonder where I can sell the troublesome thing."
Just then somebody knocked at the door. It was a long time before he let
the person in. He had to think what he would do with me first, and it
took him a good while to put away the paper he had been scribbling on.
"Why, John!" said the man, when he came in, "what makes you look so
frightened? I should think you took me for a tiger, or some such
animal." "I've got the toothache," said the thief, "and I have sent for
the doctor to pull it out. I thought he had come when you knocked. Dear
me! how I dread it! Did you ever have a tooth drawn?"
So you see the fellow told a lie.
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