“Look here, Sam, I want to show you I mean what I say. I'm sorry you have turned thief and if I can help you to be a better boy, I should be glad to.”
Again Fred's honest kindly face had the same effect upon Sam that it had at the commencement of their street fight; he respected and trusted it unconsciously.
“Here!” said he, crawling along on the beam and handing back the package of knives, the last theft of which his father had complained.
“Yes, that is right,” said Fred, leaning down and taking it, “give them all back, if you can; that is what my father calls 'making restitution,' and then you won't be a thief any longer.”
Something in the boy's tone touched Sam's heart still more; so he handed back one thing after another as rapidly as he could until nearly everything was restored.
“Bravo for you, Sam! I won't tell who took them, and there is a chance for you. Here, give me your hand now, honor bright you'll never come here again to steal, if I don't tell my father.”
Sam looked at him a moment, as if he would read his very soul; then he said sulkily:
“You'll tell; I know you will, 'cause I licked you when you didn't want me to; but you've got 'em all back, and I s'pose it won't go very hard.”
“What won't go very hard?”
“The prison.”