He had suddenly remembered something. Into his mind rushed the details of a certain recent conversation in which he had indulged with his closest chum, Thad Stevens. Again he saw the picture of that good priest of the story, looking so benignly upon the wretched Jean Valjean, brought into his presence with the valuable silver candlesticks and spoons found in his possession, which he kept insisting his late host had presented him with, however preposterous the claim seemed.
"Why, this is very nearly like that case, I declare!" ejaculated Hugh, almost overcome by the wonderful similarity, which seemed the more amazing because of the resolution he told Thad he had taken.
He dropped back into his seat, with the money still gripped in his hand. He stared hard at it. In imagination he could see Nick, who never liked hard work any too well, they said, busying himself like a beaver, putting in coal for some neighbor, perhaps; or cleaning a walk off for a dime. He must have done considerable work to earn that first dollar.
"Then after that," Hugh was saying to himself, "he sold a pair of his pet pigeons, and I reckon he thinks a heap of them, from all I've heard said. Yes, Nick must have wanted my old skates worse than he ever did anything in all his life. And when I refused to sell them to him he just thought he'd do the trading by himself. It's a queer way of doing business, and one the law wouldn't recognize; but, after all, it was an upward step for Nick Lang, when he could have taken the skates, and kept the cash as well. This certainly beats the Dutch! What ought I to do about it, I wonder? Of course, if I told the whole thing to mother, I suppose she'd let me have the new skates ahead of time; or I could borrow Kenneth Kinkaid's, because, after breaking his leg that way in the running race he says he isn't to be allowed to skate a bit this winter. But ought I let the scamp keep my skates?"
He mused over it for several minutes, as if undecided. Then the sound of voices outside caught his attention. One seemed to be gruff and official, another whining.
Hugh jumped up and stepped to a window. He could see down the street on which the Morgan home stood. Three persons were in sight, and hurrying along toward the house. One of these he recognized as his chum, Thad, who must have returned from Hobson's mill-pond earlier than he had expected. Another was the tall, attenuated Chief Wambold; and the party whom he was gripping by the arm—yes, it was none other than Hugh's late visitor, Nick Lang!
"Oh, they've caught him, it seems, just like those awful police did poor, wicked Jean Valjean," Hugh muttered, thrilled by the sight; "and right now they're fetching Nick back here, to ask me if he wasn't lying when he said I'd sold or given him my skates!"
He realized that, undoubtedly, by some strange freak of fortune Thad must have seen the other gloating over his prize; and recognizing the skates, for they were well-known to him, he had beckoned to the policeman who happened to be near by, with the result that Nick was nabbed before he realized his peril.
Hugh had to decide quickly as to what he should do, for they were coming in through the gate even now. Once again did the wonderful story he had been reading flash before his mind.
"I must try it out!" he exclaimed suddenly, gripped by the amazing coincidence between this case and that so aptly described by Hugo. "I said I would if ever I had a chance. It worked miracles in the story; perhaps it may in real life, Anyway, it's going to be worth while, and give me a heap of enjoyment watching the result. So here and now I say that I've sold my skates to Nick, and that they really belong to him at this minute. But I reckon he'll be scared pretty badly when he faces me again, expecting the worst."