Tom's eyes, as he heard, lighted up.
"By Gad, Mike, that's what he did!" he exclaimed. "Did you hear how ready he was to tell just which pocket she had it in? How'd he have known that—unless he put it there, eh?"
"It's a lie!" stormed Farmer Weeks. "Here, are you going to lock that girl up as a thief or not?"
"Indade and I'm not," said the officer, warmly. "Drop her wrist—quick!"
He stepped forward as he spoke, and Weeks, seeing by the gleam in the Irishman's eye that he had gone too far, quickly released Bessie. As she moved away from him he stood still, red-eyed and trembling with rage.
"An' what's more, you old scalawag," said the policeman, "I'm going to run you in. Maybe you never heard tell of perjury, but it's worse than pickin' pockets, let me tell you."
His heavy hand dropped to Weeks' shoulder, but he was too slow. With a yell of fright the old farmer, displaying an agility with which no one would have been ready to credit him, turned and dove headlong through the crowd.
The policeman started to give chase, but Tom Norris restrained him. He was laughing heartily.
"What's the use? Let him be, Mike," he said. "My, but it was as good as a play to see you handle him. Gosh! Watch the old beggar run, will you?"
Indeed, Weeks was running as fast as he could, and, even as they watched him, he disappeared inside the station.