SMALL LIES

"But he did forget the water. How could Rascal think a lie?"

"Jon!" There was something like fright in her eyes. "Are you trying to tell me that you can-" She shook her head and said, "We'll go out to Rascal's pen and see-"

They had started through the doorway when they heard a car coming down the road. Instantly she drew him back inside and closed the door. They stood waiting for the car to pass. It slowed, and then went on.

"The Johnsons," she said. "They would have stopped if they'd seen us. Thank goodness they didn't."

Almost in the same breath she said firmly, "Rascal will have to wait. Jon, since Mr. Gilby will be looking for someone with long hair, I'm going to cut yours. I'll also give you different clothes, so that you'll look as much like other boys as possible. It's terribly important."

"I don't mind," he said, giving Rascal a quieting thought. "I'm sorry to- to make so much trouble."

"I don't mind it in the least. In fact, if I can only get used to you, I believe I'm going to enjoy this. But getting used to you…"

She got scissors and a comb and started to cut. She found the nearly hidden clip holding his hair together at the nape of his neck. "O-o-oh!" she gasped. "What workmanship! Thomas will be interested in this."

She put the clip carefully aside and very expertly cut his hair. "I'm the family barber," she explained. "You'd be surprised what it saves. Costs a dollar-fifty in town, and nearly double that in cities. That's six dollars a month for Thomas and Brooks. Now, let's see, Clothes. Most of Brooks' old things went to the charity collection, but I saved the best for Sally to play in. They ought to fit you."

When he was finally dressed in faded jeans, a fairly good shirt, and a light jacket with a zipper, she surveyed him critically.

"We're short on shoes," she said, "but I think your boots will pass, if you keep your trousers pulled over them. Next, we've got to think up a story to explain your presence here. I know- Thomas had a pal in the marines named Jimmy O'Connor. He married a French-Moroccan girl when he was stationed in North Africa. They were both killed in the trouble there recently-so who's to know if they didn't have a son about your age? You do look well, a bit foreign. I don't see why we couldn't call you Jon O'Connor and say we'd sort of fallen heir to you for the time being."

(A/N: He does look foreign and his new name Jon O'Connor is short for Jonathan O'Connor. I would have loved to use his full name and not the short form but I will be using his short form so there would be a sense of familiarity.)

"But-but that would not be telling the truth," he said, wondering.

"You are right, of course," Mary said, sighing. "And we do try to be honest. But Jon, in this day and age, with the way things are, truth-the exact truth-is sometimes a hard thing to manage. There are times when it could cause needless trouble and suffering."

"Things must be- very wrong if- if truth can cause trouble," he replied simply.

She sighed again. "You're right- but that's the way the world seems to be. Even in little things, we often tell small lies to save people's feelings."

"Small lies?"

"Well, take Mrs. Johnson. She makes clothes, just as I do. But she's never learned to sew well, and she makes the ugliest dresses in the community. Still, I wouldn't hurt her feelings by telling her how ugly they are. I usually think of something nice to say about them."

Jon was puzzled. "But that's not right. How can she learn? It's wrong to make things ugly. Why, if she's wrong, should her feeling-"

Mary Bean shook her head. "Her feelings are important. Listen, dear. To avoid trouble, I'm afraid you'll have to be Jimmy O'Connor's boy- until we can find out more about you. I don't dare tell the Johnsons or the Pitts or some other people that-that you're a strange boy from nowhere, who has curious clothes that won't tear and curious ideas that don't fit, who has never seen money or cars before, and who can talk to-" she stopped, and again he was aware of the flicker of fright in her mind.

Quietly she said, "Let's go out and see if Rascal really is thirsty."

Rascal was a huge brown mongrel, with a wide head and heavy jaws. He snarled as they approached the enclosure and lunged to the end of the chain. The iron pan that held water was empty. Mary Bean frowned at the pan. She turned on the hose and filled it from a safe distance. Rascal quieted and drank greedily.

"How you ever knew about the pan-" she began.

"Anyway, I'd better warn you about Rascal. Thomas is always picking up stray dogs and trying to train them-but this creature was a mistake. He won't let anyone but Thomas near him. We've got to get rid of him. If he ever broke that chain…"

"He- he won't hurt you."

"I happen to know better. He's as vicious as they come, and even Thomas- No! Don't open that gate!

He hardly heard her, for he had slipped quickly through the gate, and all his attention was on Rascal. He held out his hands, and the big dog came over to hi, uncertain, then whining in sudden eagerness, trembling. As he spoke silently, he could feel the blackness and lostness fade away from the creature that now sprang upon him.

Thomas Bean, returning, glimpsed the two from the foot of the lane. He sent the truck roaring up to the house and jumped out, calling, "Hey, you crazy kid! Get out of there before-"