"Yes?"
Jim gulped.
"I—I been in jail!"
The Doctor looked once at Jim's face, quivering in an agony of shame, and hastily wiped his glasses. In the quiet came the laughter of romping boys.
"Why," said the Doctor very gently, "did you tell me?"
Something in the kindly voice opened the flood-gates of a boy's sore heart. Jim's mouth quivered piteously, then he broke down and hid his face behind his elbow, sobbing wildly.
"I wanta be square," he cried passionately, "I wanta be square like you've been to us, an'—an Luke said ye might not want a jail-bird here for Christmas. I—stole—coal—for mom—"
It was the old tale, one boy caught, paying for the petty thievery of the score who ran away. The Doctor heard the mumbled tale to the end and cleared his throat.
"And so," he said slowly, "you wanted to be square. That's the finest thing I've heard this Christmas day. Wanted to be square. Well, well!" His hand was on Jim's shoulder now. "Jim, I wonder if you could come back to me next Christmas and tell me you'd been absolutely straight—"
"Here!" said Jim in a choking whisper, his eyes blazing through his tears, "again—for Christmas!"