“No gammon, my man,” said the draper, with sudden warmth, “it’s a fact. Isn’t it a duty I owe to myself and to all my brethren in the trade to resent such an act—to punish the perpetrator? Isn’t it incumbent on me as a Christian and a church-goer to expose such dishonest practices? I ask you that.”
“I always thought it was the duty of a Christian to forgive his enemies,” said the navigator. “Leastways, that’s what I’ve bin taught, guv’nor.”
“You mind your own business, my friend,” cried the draper, “and I’ll mind mine.”
“Don’t you attempt to cheek me,” said the navigator, who stuck to his post manfully—“’cause I tell yer plainly I aint one as ell stand it. You may keep a fine shop, but that’s no reason for your being better than other people. Let the woman alone, and if so be as she’s done anything wrong, she’ll have to answer for it; but I don’t b’lieve she has.”
“No more do I,” cried another.
One of the town’s people, touched by the beauty and sadness of the prisoner, put in a word for her. He besought the draper to take his goods back, and pass the matter over as a mistake, which he hoped it really was.
“No, no, my friend,” said the tradesman, “I’m for making an example of persons of this description. I’m as straight as an arrow myself, and there is but one course to pursue. I’ve sent one of my lads for a policeman. I pay him by the day, and I can’t afford to let him waste his time.”
“But, my dear fellow, consider—” interposed the townsman, who had before spoken.
“I have considered. If it was a poor man who tried to steal something because he was sick or starving, it would be a different thing altogether—I might take compassion on him; but look at the clothes the woman has on, they are of the most costly description. I can’t afford to dress my wife like that, although I work hard and have done so early and late for the last thirty years.”
“You work hard!” exclaimed the navigator, in evident disgust.