"Hush!" put in Jack Rodman, hastily. "Wait till I have a talk with the boy."
"It ain't no use for to talk," insisted Uriah. "There's the evidence plain enough."
"There may be a mistake," suggested Bart Haycock. "I cannot believe Ralph would do anything wrong."
"Why, what—what do you mean?" stammered the boy, hardly catching the drift of their talk.
"Is this your knife, Ralph?" asked the constable, producing a buck-handle pocketknife.
"Why, yes, it is," returned Ralph, promptly. "Where did you get it?" he went on, in surprise, for he had thought the blade safe in his own pocket.
"Jess where you dropped it a couple of hours ago," returned Uriah Dicks, eagerly. "In the post office."
"The post office? I haven't been in the post office since yesterday."
"What are you doing out so early in the morning?" asked the constable.
"My mother is sick, and I have been over to Dr. Foley's for medicine for her."