When I got him to the Office, I immediately clapped him into a cell, and locking the door, was under way once more for Rose Street.
“Mrs M‘Leod,” said I, as the honest Gael opened the door, and shut it, “I am a little vexed.”
“What’s the matter? I hope naething’s wrang wi’ Donald?”
“Why, not much,” said I; “I am only troubled about these old useless newspapers. The authorities up the way—dangerous creatures these authorities—have taken it into their wise heads that Donald stole the papers from the Club; nay, they have locked him up in a cell as dark as pitch, with bread and water for fare, and, I fear, no hope of anything but judgment and punishment.”
“Fearfu’ news!” said the woman. “Oh, terrible news! condemn a man for an auld newspaper!” and hiding her face in her hands, she burst into tears.
I need not say I pitied her, for in reality I did; for at that time I had not the slightest reason to suppose that she could know that the papers were not given to Donald, or allowed to be taken as having served their purpose, and being consequently useless.
“But there’s hope,” said I.
“Hope!” she cried, “Hope!” as she took away her hands, “Whaur?—how?—speak, for God’s sake!”
“The charge is a small one,” said I, “and I have no doubt it would be scored off, provided the missing money were got. I’m sure you don’t have it; I have searched the house; but perhaps”——
“What?” she broke in, “what?”