“Then they are both shut up, the mother and the boy,” said Ellen.
“That’s so,” answered Boyce, seating himself on the edge of a chair and crushing his hat with both hands, “salt can’t save ’em after this. They’ve got to go.”
“Then these poor creatures are certainly in prison?” questioned the young lady, breaking out of all prudent bounds when she thought her vengeance on the fair way to completion.
“No mistake about that, Miss, you’d a thought so if you had seen how they took on—affecting, I can tell you, enough to bring tears from a common ball. Almost snivelled myself, if you’ll excuse the word, Miss.”
“Then it is certain?” questioned Miss Spicer.
“As bolts and bars can make it,” said Mahone. “This young man’s evidence is enough to convict a born angel.”
“And I have given it—and shall have to give it again—nothing but cutting loose and running away can stop that,” said the youth, adding the last sentence in reply to a wink from Mahone.
“Thank you very much,” said Ellen Post, dismissing the grocer’s clerk as if she had been an Empress. “I took an interest in these people on account of the boy, but if they are really guilty, of course all sympathy ends.”
“Guilty, I should think so,” answered Boyce, getting himself up from the chair, “good morning—good morning Miss. I hope I have not intruded nor nothing?”
“Good morning,” said Ellen blandly, as became a not very young lady so near the hymenial altar.