“So you stole Walter’s canoe money, eh?”
“I found it in the road,” was the sullen answer. “I was going to—”
“Sure you were—you were going to hide it. What’s the matter—afraid to let your folks know you found something in the road?” His tone was full of contempt now, and he paused, in a quandary what to do. He knew he could not arrest the farmer boy, and he was not sure that he wanted to. He did not know that the crime had been all but murder. His only feeling was that of disgust, and he surveyed the great, clumsy figure before him from head to foot.
“Go on into the house,” he said impatiently. “Who’s in there, your mother and father?”
“My mother.”
“Well, go on in and go to bed.”
“What are you going to do?” the wretched fellow asked desperately.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do, if you mean about you. I’ve got to consult my scoutmaster. Go on in and go to bed—How old is your mother?”
“She’s nearly seventy.”
Harry surveyed him slowly, contemptuously, from head to foot. He did not understand dishonesty. “Well, go on in,” he repeated, “and don’t wake her up. I guess you’re about through for to-night.” He paused, looking steadily, curiously, at the other, as one might look at a strange animal. Then he wheeled about and went silently off across the field.