They decided that very evening, with or without leave, to go down with the twenty-seven-and-six to Mr Webster.
Dick was the only one of the three who got leave; but his two friends considered the crisis one of such urgency that even without leave they should brave all consequences and accompany him.
Mr Webster was in the act of putting up his shutters when the small careworn procession halted before his door, and requested the favour of an interview.
The bookseller was in a good temper. He had rather enjoyed the day’s adventure, and reckoned that the moral effect of his action would be good. Besides, the looks of the culprit and his two friends fully justified his suspicions. They had doubtless come to restore the pencil, and plead for mercy. They should see that mercy was not kept in stock in his shop, and would want some little trouble before it was to be procured.
So he bade his visitors step inside, and state their business.
“We’ve come about the pencil, you know,” said Dick, adopting a conciliatory tone to begin with. “It’s really a mistake, Webster. Coote never took it.”
“No. We’ve known Coote for years, and never knew him do such a thing,” said Heathcote.
“And they’ve turned out every one of my pockets,” said Coote, “and there was no sign of it.”
Mr Webster smiled serenely.
“Very pretty, young gentlemen; very pretty. When you have done joking, perhaps, you’ll give me what belongs to me.”