Indignantly he drew back and confronted the man who was attempting to seize him. Tom wanted to “haul off” but instinctively he dropped his hands and relieved his emotion with full, long, audible breaths.
For a few moments neither spoke. Powers was not usually a bully, and even now something like a smile played around his square mouth.
“Come over here and talk it over, Tommy,” he said. “No need to get excited.”
Boyish indignation choked Tom’s reply. Why do grown folks always accuse children first and investigate later?
Tom finally spoke: “What’s all this about, anyway?”
“It’s about Mrs. Trivett’s money.”
“I don’t know anything about her money.”
“Now wait a minute, Tommy. Wait a minute.” Each word was separated with a provoking sing-song drawl. It mocked every instinct of justice surging over the boy. “You see—well, you know what old Nancy Trivett is—”
“Sure I do,” retorted Tom.
“Now, don’t get excited, son.” He had unlocked the store door and Tom, helpless to do otherwise, followed him inside. “She came in here this mornin’ jest after we packed the first orders. Yes, it was jest after that because—”