Melvin gasped in astonishment. A book knocked off the table by Varrell’s hand fell heavily to the floor, but it produced no effect upon him. “He dresses pretty well for a poor boy,” blurted Dick, not knowing what to say, and yet feeling that he must make some protest.
This answer touched one of Mr. Moore’s pet theories, and stirred up an immediate reproof.
“You will pardon me, Melvin, if I term that a very unjust judgment. Neatness and care with regard to one’s attire are habits decidedly worth cultivating, whether one is rich or poor. It often happens that a poor boy has friends who give him clothes a great deal better than he could afford to buy. It is manifestly unfair and unkind to charge him with extravagance until you know fully the facts in his case.”
“That’s very true, sir,” remarked Varrell, promptly. The tone drew Melvin’s eyes to the speaker’s face. In reply he got a fierce look that shut him up like an oyster.
“Was that all?” inquired Mr. Moore, glancing at the clock.
“Yes, sir,” replied Varrell, as the boys rose. “We only wanted to tell you about Tompkins.”
“You may be reassured on that point. Neither he nor any other boy is suspected. The thief must have been a professional, but the whole affair is a mystery which we shall probably never solve. Thank you for coming to see me.”
Once outside, the conversation between the two boys waxed warm.
“Dick, you certainly are the limit!”
“What now?” asked Melvin.