"I couldn't help it, sir; indeed, I couldn't!" he blurted out. "Poor ma was so sick and needed money so dreadful!"
"So you took it for your mother," said Mr. Denton. "Now, tell me the truth, Sam; what did you do with the other three hundred dollars?"
Sam Watkins looked up into the gentleman's face. His eyes were red from weeping, but they did not waver.
"I lost it, sir," he said, simply. "It was in my coat pocket. You see, I divided the wad, sir, so it wouldn't look so bulky!"
"And did your mother scold you?" asked Mr. Denton, still smiling.
The boy's glance fell to the floor and he shifted his feet uneasily.
"No, sir, she didn't scold—that is, not exactly," he said, sniffing. "She just talked to me, sir, and then she cried something awful!"
Mr. Denton turned his head away for about a minute. There was something in the boy's story that affected him strangely. The poor woman had wept because her boy had stolen some money, yet rich men smiled complacently over what they called "good bargains," but which in reality were little more than thieving.
"How is your brother?" he asked, when he could trust himself to speak.
The boy's lips trembled and he began crying before he answered.