“Nobody can scare me into doing anything,” said Westy, defiantly. “I told because I wanted to tell and the reason you didn’t give money to the boy scouts was because you’re too stingy.”
This was the second time on that fateful day that Westy had shot and hit the mark. It seemed to amuse both the judge and the game warden.
CHAPTER XIII
THE PENALTY
“Has your uncle a telephone?” the justice asked, not unkindly.
“No, sir,” said Westy. “Anyway, I wouldn’t want to telephone him.”
“Could you get your father in Bridgeboro by ’phone?”
“He’d be in New York, and anyway, I don’t want to ’phone him.”
“Hum,” mused the judge. “Well, I’m afraid I haven’ much choice then, my boy. The fine for what you did is a hundred dollars. I’ll have to turn you over to the sheriff, then perhaps I’ll get in communication——”
Westy’s sweaty, trembling hand came up out of his pocket bringing his treasure with it. Boyishly, he did not even think to remove the elastic band which was around the roll of bills, but laid the whole thing upon the justice’s desk.
“Here—here it is,” he said nervously, “—to—to pay for what I did. There’s more than what you said—there’s three dollars more.”