“I tell yer it was him,” said Mike, with a ferocious glare at Don.
“All right, Mike, you tell the magistrates that,” said the constable, “and don’t forget.”
“I arn’t going ’fore no magistrits,” grumbled Mike.
“Yes, you are,” said the constable, taking a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. “Now then, is it to be quietly?”
Mike made a furious gesture.
“Just as you like,” said the constable. “Jem Wimble, I call you in the King’s name to help.”
“Which I just will,” cried Jem, with alacrity; and he made at Mike, while Don felt a strange desire tingling in his veins as he longed to help as well.
“I gives in,” growled Mike. “I could chuck the whole lot on you outer winder, but I won’t. It would only make it seem as if I was guilty, and it’s not guilty, and so I tell you. Master says I took the money, and I says it was that young Don Lavington as is the thief. Come on, youngster. I’ll talk to you when we’re in the lock-up.”
Don looked wildly from Mike to his uncle, whose eyes were fixed on the constable.
“Do you charge the boy too, sir?”