“I neglected that piece of business,” said John, anticipating comment; and then in his own dialect: “I clean forgot all about it.”
“Well,” said his father, “it’s a most extraordinary story. Have you communicated with the police?”
“I have,” answered poor John, the blood leaping to his face. “They think they know the men that did it. I daresay the money will be recovered, if that was all,” said he, with a desperate indifference, which his father set down to levity; but which sprang from the consciousness of worse behind.
“Your mother’s watch, too?” asked Mr. Nicholson.
“O, the watch is all right!” cried John. “At least, I mean I was coming to the watch—the fact is, I am ashamed to say, I—I had pawned the watch before. Here is the ticket; they didn’t find that; the watch can be redeemed; they don’t sell pledges.” The lad panted out these phrases, one after another, like minute-guns; but at the last word, which rang in that stately chamber like an oath, his heart failed him utterly; and the dreaded silence settled on father and son.
It was broken by Mr. Nicholson picking up the pawn-ticket: “John Froggs, 85 Pleasance,” he read; and then turning upon John, with a brief flash of passion and disgust, “Who is John Froggs?” he cried.
“Nobody,” said John. “It was just a name.”
“An alias,” his father commented.
“O! I think scarcely quite that,” said the culprit; “it’s a form, they all do it, the man seemed to understand; we had a great deal of fun over the name——”
He paused at that, for he saw his father wince at the picture like a man physically struck; and again there was silence.