“I believe Titus knew,” exclaimed the Judge.
“I believe he did,” said Dr. Reynald, coolly, “from what I know of Titus. Don’t distress yourself about a little lying. Children all take to it as ducks to water. The main thing is to get them out of it, before they get their feathers wet—and it takes a lot of soaking to wet them.”
“Titus is no story-teller,” said the Judge, thoughtfully, “though he does other provoking things.”
“How old is he?”
“Fourteen.”
“Then if he has not acquired the habit of lying he won’t get it now. Don’t be afraid of the English boy, Judge. Give him a chance. It’s an awful world for motherless and fatherless lads. I see them on the rocks every day.”
“But I ought to send him back to New York,” said the Judge, weakly.
“No such thing. Go upstairs, give him a tremendous scolding, then forgive him. You’re not bound to keep him if he proves outrageous. But he won’t. He’s a delicate slip; he’s looking for some soft corner to creep into like a sick cat or dog. Put yourself in his place, Judge; put yourself in his place.”
The Judge did, and he shivered. “I will let him stay,” he said, suddenly, “on your recommendation, but he must be talked to.”
“Good-bye,” said Dr. Reynald, with a mischievous face, “good-bye. Let me know when you have a serious case again,” and he hurried out into the hall and downstairs.