Eugene was a very mischievous little boy and his mother's patience was worn to the limit. She had spoken very nicely to him several times without effect. Finally she said:
You are a perfect little heathen!
Do you mean it? demanded Eugene.
Indeed, I do, said the mother.
Then, mother, said the boy, "why can't I keep that ten cents a week you gimme for the Sunday-school collection? I guess I'm as hard up as any of the rest of 'em."