By this time a crowd had gathered, and the thief appealed to them.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “I am a reputable citizen of St. Louis, come to Boston to buy goods, and I protest against this outrage. It is either a mistake or a conspiracy, I don't know which.”
The thief was well dressed, and some of the bystanders were disposed to put confidence in him. He had not seen Herbert and George Melville, who had left the car and joined the throng, or he might not have spoken so confidently.
“He doesn't look like a thief,” said one of the bystanders, a benevolent-looking old gentleman.
“I should say not,” said the thief, more boldly. “It's a pretty state of things if a respectable merchant can't enter a store here in Boston without being insulted and charged with theft. If I only had some of my friends or acquaintances here, they would tell you that it is simply ridiculous to make such a charge against me.”
“You can explain this at the station house,” said the policeman. “It is my duty to take you there.”
“Is there no one who knows the gentleman?” said the philanthropist before referred to. “Is there no one to speak up for him?”
Herbert pressed forward, and said, quietly:
“I know something of him; I passed the morning in his company.”
The thief turned quickly, but he didn't seem gratified to see Herbert.