“Yes,” said Duffield, perceiving the joke, “for some burglary, or something like that.”
Heathcote breathed again at the word burglary, and made an heroic effort to smile.
“Not at all,” said Raggles, nudging his ally; “not a burglary, but boat-stealing, isn’t it, Webster?”
“Ah,” said Mr Webster, who was a good man of business and fond of his joke, “they never did find that young party, certainly.”
“Shut up and don’t be a fool!” said Heathcote, feeling the colour coming to his face, and longing to be out in the open air.
“What’s this the description was?” said Duffield, perching himself on the corner of the counter and reading off the unhappy Heathcote’s personal appearance. “Good-looking boy of fourteen, with fair hair and a slight moustache. Dressed in a grey tweed suit, masher collar, and two tin sleeve-links. Not very intelligent, and usually wears a smudge of ink under his right eye. Isn’t that it?”
“That’s something about the mark,” said Mr Webster, laughing.
“Think of offering two pounds reward for a chap like that!” said Raggles. “They must be hard up.”
“Look here,” said Heathcote, seeing that his only refuge lay in swagger, “I’m not going to have any of your cheek, Raggles. Shut up, or I’ll lick you!”
“No fighting here, young gentlemen, please,” said the affable bookseller.