"No, you don't—mistakes don't go. A man ought to know his own name."
Digby saw no one, heard no one but the man beside him as he stumbled along, pleading with his eyes, his mouth, his every expression. He did not observe the lady against whom he roughly jostled, but the lady turned in time to hear him say in piteous accents:
"Man, for God's sake, don't be too hasty—; I—-"
"Oh, let up; we're onto you! This ain't your basket and you took it, that's all there is about it. Come on!" gruffly jerked out the man at his elbow.
"But where is Mrs. Trotter? I want to—I must see her."
"Here I am, Digby. What is the matter?" cried a well known voice in his ear. That voice had never sounded so sweet to him, nor had its sweetness ever sounded so much like condemnation to his wretched soul.
"Kate!" he gasped.
"What is it?" she demanded hurriedly. "What does this man want?" The man was staring blankly at the pair, stock still with amazement.
"He says I—I have been trying to steal this basket. It's our—yours, I mean, isn't it? Tell him so, Kate—quick!" cried the miserable man with the plaintive coat collar turned up about his neck.
"This is our basket, sir," indignantly exclaimed Mrs. Trotter.