The look of utter and complete amazement on young Bowman’s face at hearing this did more to convince the officer he had the wrong person in custody than anything else. He allowed Rex to stop and parley with his friend.
The situation was explained in few words. Scott was a year older than Rex. His father was a city official with a salary of ten thousand a year. He was highly indignant when he heard of the outrage.
“This is monstrous,” he said, and announcing who he was, demanded that Rex be instantly released.
“But I can’t do that, Mr. Bowman, if that is really your name,” responded the officer somewhat nettled. “Because this young gentleman happens to be a friend of yours, it doesn’t make it any the less likely that he broke that window.”
“‘If that is really my name?’” repeated Scott, highly incensed. “You’ll find out whether that is my name or not when I report this affair to my father.”
The officer smiled; so did a number in the crowd. Rex felt that his former humiliation was nothing compared to that which he was now undergoing, having caused his friend to be treated in this insulting fashion.
“Come on,” said the policeman, and the line of march to Sydney’s office was resumed, Scott valiantly falling into place beside Rex, vowing vengeance on the entire force of bluecoats.
“Don’t stay with me, Scott,” Rex implored him. “You’ve borne enough. I don’t want to drag you down into the mire too.”
“Do you suppose I’d desert a friend in a time of need like this?” returned Scott. “I’m going to take this officer’s number now while I think of it.”
Scott fished a pencil out of one pocket and a railroad timetable out of the other, and glancing at the shield on the breast of the policeman made a record of the figures on it in a very conspicuous manner. But the officer did not tremble with apprehension. He simply turned to Rex and observed, “This is the place, isn’t it?”