“I spent it.”
Fright now was upon him—terror, panic. But behind the panic, like the resolution under torture not to betray one’s friend, was the resolve never, never to say upon what the money had been spent.
“What?”
“I haven’t got it, father. I thought it was for me.”
“You thought it was for you?”
“Yes. Mr. Thompson didn’t say anything about it—only that it was for the journey.”
“And did you spend it on the journey?”
There was no answer.
“Will you kindly tell me how, having already your ticket, you managed to spend one pound between your school and your home?”
He felt the tears rising, and desperately beat them back. How he hated those tears that came always, it seemed, when one least wished to cry.