Nevertheless, in spite of his father's arguments, Christopher could not entirely put the unlucky Stuart out of his mind. Nor did the fried scallops, grilled sweet potatoes, and salad which his father ordered for him wholly blot out a lurking depression or the haunting memory of the criminal's face. It took two chocolate ice creams and an ample square of fudge cake to dispel his gloom and bring his spirits back to their accustomed cheerfulness.
By the time he and his father returned to the store, however, they were practically normal, and he ascended to the fourth floor to hunt up McPhearson, who amid the general excitement he had left somewhat abruptly.
"Well, so you landed your light-fingered friend, did you, laddie?" remarked the Scotchman.
"Mr. Corrigan did."
"It was thanks to you, I guess."
"Partly!"
"Humph! You don't seem very triumphant about it." The old man peered at the boy over the top of his glasses.
"I'm not. It made me sick—the whole thing."
"I know, sonny—I know. But we can't have such persons about," McPhearson said gently. "Of course you are sorry to put a fellow behind the bars, but—"
"He was so darned decent about it—and so plucky," exclaimed Christopher. "Why, he was almost a gentleman."