“Give that paper back, you young whipper-snapper!” demanded Stonington Hunt.
“Not till I’ve compared it with something else,” was the quiet rejoinder.
And very leisurely Tubby drew from his pocket something wrapped in paper. This, on being uncovered, proved to be a bit of wood smelling strongly of kerosene.
The rotund youth compared the thumb-print on the papers and the one upon the bit of wood with quiet deliberation, while the others looked breathlessly on. They could not imagine what was coming. Stonington Hunt could, though, for his face was pale and the sweat stood on his brow in shiny beads.
“Are you going to give that paper back?” he demanded in a hoarse voice.
“Yes, when I’ve got a warrant for your arrest for setting fire to Paul Perkins’s wagon house,” was the quiet rejoinder.
“Why—I—you—what do you mean?” exclaimed Hunt, but his eyes were wild and staring and he seemed about to fall to the ground.
“I mean that the thumb-print on this bit of oil-soaked wood and your thumb-print on this paper are the same,” declared Tubby. “If you don’t think so, we’ll go to the magistrate and let him decide.”
“Oh, no! Oh, no! Mercy!” howled Stonington Hunt, suddenly losing all his bravado and sinking on his knees. “Be merciful. Don’t prosecute me.”
“Be quiet and listen,” said Tubby, in the same judicial voice, while his companions gazed on, amazed at the stern expression of the ordinarily careless, good-natured lad’s tones.