“I won’t,” said Benny; “but I can tell that you helped bring him in, can’t I? because you’re doing it, you know.”
“Don’t say that either,” Paul replied. “I’m not helping at all—not to bring him in, that is. The man is very tired; he’s been in the woods all night, lying on the ground, and he’s had no breakfast; he is weak, and I’m helping him, not the sheriff. Don’t you see how the poor fellow leans against me?”
“Yes,” said Benny. Then he dropped his voice to a whisper and said, “Would you mind telling him that I’m sorry for him too, even if he did—”
“Tell him yourself,” said Paul, quickly. “And go on the other side of him and give him a lift.”
Benny obeyed the last half of Paul’s instructions, but the strangeness of his position made him entirely forget the first part, and he was wicked enough to wish that, as they reached the more thickly settled part of the town, people who saw them might think, if only for an hour or two, that he and Paul, two boys, had caught the dreadful counterfeiter. And his wish was gratified even more than he had dared to hope, for suddenly they came face to face with Ned Johnston, who gave them just one wondering look, and then flew about town and told every boy that the prisoner had been caught, and that Paul and Benny did it.
Arrived at the jail, the deputy pointed with his pistol to the still open door.
“One moment, please,” said the prisoner. “Boys, I am very much obliged to you. Will you shake hands?”
He put out his hand toward Benny as he spoke, and Benny took it; then he gave a hand to Paul, and Paul looked him straight in the face so long that Benny was sure he was going to make certain of the man’s looks in case he ever broke loose again and had to be followed. Then the man went into his cell, and Paul stood by until he saw the three great bolts securely shot, after which he and Benny went together toward their homes.
Chapter XI.
THE TRIAL.
