"No," retorted Fred, sulkily. "Not after you've disgraced me by putting a private detective on my track. It was shameful."
That brought the hot blood rushing to his father's face.
"Shameful, was it, you young reprobate? Shameful to you, when you have been stealing for weeks, if not for months? It is you who are dead to the sense of shame. Your life, I fear, young man, cannot go on as it has been going. You are not fitted for a home of wealth and refinement. You have had too much money, too easy a time. I see that, now. Well, it shall all change! You shall have a different kind of home."
Fred began to quake. He knew that his father, when in a mood like this, was not to be trifled with.
"You—-you don't mean jail?" gasped the boy with a yellow streak in him.
"No; I don't; at least, not this time," retorted his father. "But, let me see. You spoke of an engagement to do something this afternoon. What was it?"
"I was to have pitched in the game against Cedarville High School."
"Go on, then, and do it," replied his father.
"I—-I can't pitch, now. My nerves are too——-"
"Go on and do what you're pledged to do!" thundered Lawyer Ripley, in a tone which Fred knew was not to be disregarded. So the boy started for the door.