“Well, sir, it’s an unpleasant accusation that is brought against this young gentleman. But perhaps he’ll be able to make it clear. I hope he will. It don’t give us no pleasure when folks are convicted, especially young ones, and those we have always known to be respectable; we’d rather see ‘em let off.”
Tom interrupted—Tom, in his fiery indignation. “Is it of stealing that bank-note of Galloway’s that you presume to accuse my brother?” he asked, speaking indistinctly in his haste and anger.
“You have said it, sir,” replied the man. “That’s it.”
“Then I say whoever accuses him ought to be—”
“Silence, Thomas,” interrupted Mr. Channing. “Allow me to deal with this. Who brings this accusation against my son?”
“We had our orders from Mr. Butterby, sir. He is acting for Mr. Galloway. He was called in there early this morning.”
“Have you come for my son to go with you to Mr. Galloway’s?”
“Not there, sir. We have to take him straight to the Guildhall. The magistrates are waiting to hear the case.”
A dismayed pause. Even Mr. Channing’s heart, with all its implicit faith in the truth and honour of his children, beat as if it would burst its bounds. Tom’s beat too; but it was with a desire to “pitch into” the policemen, as he had pitched into Pierce senior in the cloisters.
Mr. Channing turned to Arthur. “You have an answer to this, my son?”