"It's true the police were chasing me," he admitted reluctantly, "but they mistook me for someone else."
"If you weren't guilty why did you run?" Penny demanded suspiciously. "Why didn't you wait and explain?"
"You can't explain to a cop," the boy told her with a scornful curl of his lip. "You see, I have a juvenile court record—it doesn't amount to much but the police won't give me a chance. I've been trying to go straight, but every move I make they watch me."
"Tell me your name."
The boy hesitated, then said quietly:
"Jerry Barrows."
"I mean your real name," Penny smiled.
A telltale flush crept over the youth's face, but he threw back his head a trifle defiantly.
"It is my real name. I'm no thief either. I admit I've been in a little trouble before this, but today it wasn't my fault. Another fellow and myself were standing in a crowd when an old lady let out a holler that someone had picked her pocketbook. The police came running. They spotted me right off. I hadn't been near the old lady, but she was so excited she was ready to identify anyone. When the cops tried to arrest me on suspicion I took to my heels."
"What sort of juvenile court record do you have?" Penny asked.