"Where is the bicycle now?" I questioned.
“I sold it,” he said.
“Where is the money you got for it?”
“I spent it.” He began to cry.
“And now your conscience starts to trouble you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“My lad,” I told him, “this is no hiding place for boys who steal, and for whom the police are searching.”
The boy did not reply; he turned aside and brushed away the tears with his cap. Then he started slowly towards the door.
“So I can’t stay?” he said finally.
“I am afraid not,” I replied.