“Yer think I’d steal?” his father menaced.
“I know yer did an’ I want that pin.”
For a minute the elder Slade glared at his son with a look of fury. He made a start toward him and Tom stood just as Roy had stood, without a stir.
“Yer’d call me a thief, would yer—yer—”
“I was as bad myself once,” said Tom, pitying him. “I swiped her ball. Gimme the pin.”
“’Taint wuth nothin’,” he said.
“Gimme it.”
Slade made an exploration of his pockets as if he could not imagine where such a thing could be. Then he looked at Tom as if reconsidering the wisdom of an assault; then off through the woods as if to determine the chance for a quick “get away.”
“Yer wouldn’ tell nobuddy yer met me,” he whined.
“No, I’ll never tell—gimme the pin.”