“Was it your companion who broke into this room this morning and stole my inkstand?” pursued the rector.
“I dunno,” repeated Frank. “I didn’t see him steal nuthin’, I was asleep.”
“Would he be likely to do it?”
“I dunno,” said Frank under his breath, deeply conscious that he did know very well.
“Is he your brother?”
“No,” cried Frank with a sudden burst of eloquence, “he’s no kin to me. I’m Frank Darvell’s lad, what lives at Green Highlands. And Parson knows me—and Schoolmaster. And I’ve niver stolen nowt in my life. Don’t ye let ’em lock me up!”
“A likely story!” growled Andrew. “Honest lads don’t go trampin’ round with thieves.”
The rector, whose face had softened at the boy’s appeal, seemed to pull himself together sternly at this remark; he frowned, and said, turning away a little from Frank’s tear-stained face: “I would gladly believe you, my boy, but it is too improbable. As Andrew says, honest boys do not associate with thieves.”
“Ask any of ’em at Danecross, sir,” pleaded poor Frank in despair; “anyone ull tell ye I belong to honest folk.”
“That’s no proof you’re not a thief,” put in the persistent Andrew; “there’s many a rotten apple hangs on a sound tree.”