"But&—"
"Say no more. Parsons, take him away."
"I shall see you later," whispered Mr. Woodward in my ear as the constable hurried me off.
The next instant we were on the street. Arrests in Darbyville were rare, and by the time we reached the jail we had a goodly following of boys and idle men, all anxious to know what was up.
"He stole the Widow Canby's money," I heard one man whisper, to which another replied:&—
"Light fingered, eh? Must take after his father. I always knew the Strongs couldn't be trusted."
The jail was a small affair, being nothing more than the loft over a carpenter shop. The jailer was a round-faced man named Booth, who filled in his spare time by doing odd jobs of carpentering in the shop downstairs. We found him hard at work glueing some doors together. I knew him tolerably well, and he evinced considerable surprise at seeing me in custody.
"What, Roger; arrested! What for?"
"That's what I would like to know," I returned.
In a few words Parsons told him what was to be done, and Booth led the way upstairs.