“But I didn’t take it—I haven’t got it—I wouldn’t do such a thing,” said Coote, beginning to feel very uncomfortable.
“You’d like me to suppose that some one else took it; wouldn’t you?” said Mr Webster, feeling so sure of his ground as quite to enjoy himself.
“If you’ve lost it, somebody else did. I didn’t,” said the boy.
“Now, look here, young gentleman, that sort of thing may go down at home or here in school, but it’s no use trying it on with me. If you don’t choose to give me that pencil this moment, we’ll see what a policeman can do.”
At this threat Coote turned pale. “Really, I never took it! You may feel in my pockets. Oh, please don’t bring a policeman, Mr Webster!”
“What’s your name?” demanded Mr Webster, ostentatiously producing a pencil and paper.
“Coote—Arthur Dennis Coote,” said the trembling boy.
“Address?”
“One, Richmond Villas, Richmond Road, G—.”
“Very well, Mr Coote,” said the stationer, folding up the paper and putting it into his pocket-book; “unless you call on me before this time to-morrow with the pencil, I’ll have you locked up. Good morning.”