“I wouldn’t,” the judge leaned forward and pretended to whisper, “I wouldn’t object at all if I were you. It’s your greatest asset. They don’t know you’re a detective, these fellows, and when they do they don’t take you seriously. That right?” He winked at the older pickpocket.
“That was it, Judge. You see, Judge,” the man went on, encouraged by the judge’s disarming smile, “I knew this boy was a detective. I—I’d see him before, and I says to Jimmy, me pal here, I says, just whispers, y’ understand, ‘Jimmy,’ I says, ‘it would be great sport to grab that country boy’s wad right before this college boy detective’s eyes.’ We done it for sport, Judge, honest we did.” The prisoner essayed a laugh, which turned out number one common, and scarcely that.
“I see,” said the judge, leaning back in his chair and appearing to think deeply. “You stole a hundred dollars from an innocent boy as a joke on a boy detective? You were getting off the car, weren’t you?”
“Yes, your Honor.”
“And the boy was getting off to go another way. How did you expect to get his money back to him? How did you mean to explain his loss to him?”
“Your Honor, we—”
“Ah no! You didn’t do it as a joke!” The judge leaned far forward. There was a glint of fire in his eye. The smile had faded from his face as a field of sunshine is blotted out by dark October clouds. “You meant to steal that boy’s pocketbook. These records show that.
“It didn’t matter to you that this boy might be left penniless in a strange city. If it had been a poor shop-girl with two weeks’ pay in her purse, the price of a well earned week’s vacation, you’d have done it too. It wouldn’t have meant anything to you if it had been a scrub-woman. If the money had been earned by eight hours of scrubbing six days a week, you’d have taken it just the same.
“You don’t want to go straight. You want to be pickpockets. That’s the only occupation you have. It’s the only one you’ll ever have, except when you’re in jail. And that’s where you’ll be for some time.
“Six months. Take them away.”