“This heah officeh says that I stole a thousand dollahs last night!” cried out Randall, indicating the constable.
Merry smiled. To any one who knew Bob Randall, the preposterous absurdity of such a charge was evident. Randall might be a murderer, but never a thief.
“Why, old man,” said Frank, “surely there’s no evidence for such a charge? You have plenty of money, for one thing. For another, any one who knows you must believe you incapable of such a thing.”
“Yo’ sho’ ahe true blue, Chip!” Randall cried eagerly. “Of co’se, no one would accuse a Randall of theft, except a low-down Yankee——”
Colonel Gunn cleared his throat heavily. His face looked troubled, and Chip saw that he also found it hard to reconcile the charge with Randall’s character.
“You—ah—are presupposing a good deal, gentlemen,” he declared ponderously. “In the first place, allow me to make the assertion that—ah—no one has accused Mr. Randall of the theft. Is that not right, constable?”
“Yes, sir,” said the perplexed officer. “I didn’t accuse him, exactly. I only wanted to know how much he knew.”
“A distinction with a difference,” said the colonel.
Frank made a grimace of despair. If he was going to get to the bottom of this before time for mess, he would have to wade in.
“Excuse me, sir,” he exclaimed, “but I know nothing of the circumstances referred to. I don’t see how I can help Randall, but if you’ll be good enough to explain the nature of the difficulty I’ll be only too glad to tell anything I know, or to do anything I can to help out matters.”