"Here's a kid that upset the Italian's cart," explained the bluecoat. "I seen him do it."
"Dat's a'right, Mr. Police," added the peddler. "He badda de boy. Knocka alla de banan in de streeta."
"What's your name?" asked the sergeant, drawing the blotter, or slate, toward him. On this were written the names of prisoners, and Jimmy, who had often been in station-houses when men were locked up, knew what was coming next.
"You're not going to lock me up, are you?" he asked.
"That's what we are," replied the sergeant. "This business of annoying the Italians has got to stop." He was only carrying out the orders of his superiors.
"But I didn't do it."
"Well, you can prove that to the judge in the morning and he'll let you go."
"Sure he done it," repeated the policeman. "I seen him."
Which was true enough as far as it went. The officer was honestly mistaken, as was the Italian. The sergeant wrote down Jimmy's name and other information which the lad gave.
"Anybody go your bail?" and the sergeant looked up on asking the usual question, for in such minor offenses as this he was empowered to take bail for prisoners.