The afternoon session had begun at the academy, and therefore Ben’s plight was not witnessed by any of the scholars, for which he was doubly thankful. When they were inside the lockup Pickle removed the handcuffs from the boy’s wrists.
“There,” he said, “I don’t guess you’ll break out of here. There’s a chair and a bunk, and you better make yo’rself as comf’table as ye can. Hubbard will have charge of ye now till you’re brought to trial.” The door closed heavily behind the departing officer, the bolt grating harshly in the lock.
On the journey back to Oakdale Ben had tried in vain to learn the particulars of the crime with which he was charged. While avoiding or refusing to answer his questions, the two men had craftily sought to lead him into compromising statements; failing in which, they disappointedly told each other that his attempt at “slickness” would do him no good.
The boy sat on the heavy, broken-backed chair, resting his elbows on his knees and bowing his face in his hands. There he sat motionless for a long time, trying to divine by what baleful freak of circumstances he had been brought to this wretched plight; but, without knowledge of the facts to work upon, he found himself floundering helplessly and blindly in a mire of uncertainty.
He was aroused by voices outside the door, above which an iron-barred window admitted light and air.
“I say it’s just inhuman to treat the poor boy in sech a fashion! You ain’t fed him, y’u say; y’u ain’t even found out if he’s hongry an’ starvin’. I’ve brung him some vittles, an’ the least y’u can do is feed him. I don’t b’lieve he ever stole nothin’, an’ I’ll never b’lieve it till it’s proved ag’in’ him. He’s a good boy, an’ a kindhearted boy. He was good to my little Jimmy, an’ I’ll never forgit it as long’s the Lord lets me live.”
Ben thrilled, for it was the voice of Mrs. Jones; and here was one, at least, who still had faith in him.
“That’s all right, Mis’ Jones,” said Abel Hubbard. “Your sympathetic heart sartainly does you credit, but in this case it’s a dead sure thing you’re a-wastin’ your sympathy on an undeservin’ objec’. Why, there ain’t no doubt in the world but he’s the thief, for wasn’t the watches and the rings and some of the money found hid under the straw tick of his bed right in your own house? That’s proof enough, Mis’ Jones, and there ain’t no gittin’ round it.”
“I don’t b’lieve he put them things there, Abel Hubbard—no, siree! I dunno how they come to be there, but that boy never stole ’em.”
“He’s been up to things wuss’n that, and his father before him was a jailbird. Blood will tell, Mis’ Jones—blood will tell. I s’pose he orter have somethin’ to eat, but we’ve been so busy we ain’t got ’round to feed him yet. I’ll give him the grub you’ve brung. Yes, I’ll give it to him now, Mis’ Jones; but you better stand back from the door, ’cause he’s a desperate critter, and there’s no tellin’ what he may try. He’ll never play no snigdums on me, though; he’ll find me ready if he tries ’em.”