It really got me when Tommy came into the room. He'd been crying; his face was streaked, and he looked scared and forlorn.
"Son," I said, finding it difficult to keep the rasp out of my voice, "if you've got a hat, put it on and let's go."
Thompson pulled out his handkerchief again and carefully lowered himself into the chair behind the desk. "You don't seem to understand, Mr. Potter. Your boy is in trouble. He's been identified as leading a gang of kids who spent most of the morning shoplifting in stores all over town."
"That's bull," I said. "How could my boy do a thing like that? He's only twelve. Who identified him, anyway?"
"The shopkeepers and the other members of the gang."
FOR ONE awful moment, I felt a great cavity of doubt. "Son," I asked, "what's this all about?"
Tommy's face creased with fear and tears brimmed his eyes. "It was Ashe," he quavered.
"Ashe?"
"Yes. I told him about the gang."