They had scarcely turned the corner when they came upon the cart. The baker was looking the other way, talking to some one, and Clare thought to lay down the loaf and say nothing about it: there was no occasion for the ceremony of apology where offence was unknown. But in the very act the baker turned and saw him. He sprang upon him, and collared him. The baker was not nice to look at.
“I have you!” he cried, and shook him as if he would have shaken his head off.
“It’s quite a mistake, sir!” was all Clare could get out, so fierce was the earthquake that rattled the house of his life.
“Mistaken am I? I like that!—Police!”
And with that the baker shook him again.
A policeman was not far off; he heard the man call, and came running.
“Here’s a gen’leman as wants the honour o’ your acquaintance, Bob!” said the baker.
But Tommy saw that, from his size, he was more likely to get off than Clare if he told the truth.
“Please, policeman,” he said, “it wasn’t him; it was me as took the loaf.”
“You little liar!” shouted the baker. “Didn’t I see him with his hand on the loaf?”