The woman dropped her hands from her face and looked up wildly, half defiantly.
“Mr. Smith, you know Fred. You liked him, didn’t you? He isn’t bad and wicked, is he? And they can’t shut him up if—if we pay it back—all of it that he took? They won’t take my boy—to prison?”
“To prison—Fred!”
At the look of horror on Mr. Smith’s face, she began to wring her hands again.
“You don’t know, of course. I’ll have to tell you—I’ll have to,” she moaned.
“But, my dear woman,—not unless you want to.”
“I do want to—I do want to! I’ve got to talk—to somebody. It’s this way.” With a visible effort she calmed herself a little and forced herself to talk more coherently. “We got a letter from Fred. It came this morning. He wanted, some money—quick. He wanted seven hundred dollars and forty-two cents. He said he’d got to have it—if he didn’t, he’d go and kill himself. He said he’d spent all of his allowance, every cent, and that’s what made him take it—this other money, in the first place.”
“You mean—money that didn’t belong to him?” Mr. Smith’s voice was a little stern.
“Yes; but you mustn’t blame him, you mustn’t blame him, Mr. Smith. He said he owed it. It was a—a debt of honor. Those were his very words.”
“Oh! A debt of honor, was it?” Mr. Smith’s lips came together grimly.