Mrs. Prescott had staggered forward, weeping and throwing her arms around her son.
"O, Richard! Richard, my boy!" was all she could say.
"Mother, I know nothing about how those things came to be in my trunk," protested the boy, sturdily. After his first groan the young freshman, being all grit by nature, straightened up, feeling that he could look all the world in the eye. Only his mother's grief, and the knowledge that his father was soon to be hurt, appealed to the softer side of young Prescott's nature.
"Mother, I have not stolen anything," the boy said, more solemnly, after a pause. "I am your son. You believe me, don't you?"
"I'd stake my life on your innocence when you've given me your word!" declared that loyal woman.
"The chief said I was to take your instructions, Dr. Thornton," hinted Hemingway.
"Yes; I heard the order given," nodded the now gloomy High
School principal.
"Shall I arrest young Prescott?"
At that paralyzing question Dick's mother did not cry out. She kissed her son, then went just past the open doorway, where she halted again.
"I hesitate about seeing any boy start from his first offense with a criminal record," replied the principal, slowly. "If I were convinced that this would be the last offense I certainly would not favor any prosecution. Prescott, could you promise——-"