"What sort of chap is this Peters? Respectable?"
"Well, he's very poor, sir, so I suppose folks are down on him a bit."
"Rubbish! You're poor, aren't you? Nobody's 'down' on you! Would you take him home, now, if your mother was there?"
This was a poser; and Mr. Farrant, noticing Jim's perplexity, began quite a brilliant tune with his fingers.
"Better leave it to the police, Broad," he advised. "I daresay they'll be able to supply us with information concerning the other boy. We aren't likely to get anything satisfactory in this quarter."
In truth Jim's story did not go far toward clearing his character, and of this he was fully aware. Curly Peters had given him the sixpence, but, just as certainly, he had not entered the shop. The more Jim puzzled, the more mixed things became, until at length his brain was in a perfect whirl. Still he stuck stubbornly to the main points of his statement, from which he could not be turned either by threats or blandishments.
His employer implored him for the sake of his mother and sister to tell the truth, while Mr. Farrant drew a vivid word-picture of the disgrace and misery awaiting him; but to each of them he replied in the same terms.
"I did not steal the money!" he exclaimed; "and I have told you all I know."
Mr. Farrant ceased drumming. "I'm tired of this farce, Broad," he exclaimed, "and if you don't make an end one way or another, I'm off!"
"Wait five minutes longer," pleaded Jim's master. "Now, Hartland, here is your last chance." And he laid his watch on the counter. "Tell the whole truth, and I promise solemnly that nothing more shall be heard of the business. Beyond the three of us, no one shall be any the wiser. If you still remain obstinate at the end of five minutes, I shall place the matter in the hands of the police."