“Thirty shillings,” said Dick, “that was the price marked on it.”
“And yet you never saw it.”
“Of course I didn’t,” retorted Dick, beginning to feel hot. “I’ve told you so twice—Coote saw it.”
“Yes,” said Coote, “there was a tiny label on it.”
“We can’t make up quite thirty shillings,” said Heathcote; “but we’ve got twenty-seven shillings and sixpence. I suppose you’ll make that do?”
“Do you suppose I’ll make it do?” said Mr Webster, beginning to feel hot, too. “You think you can come to my shop, and pilfer my things like so many young pickpockets; and then you have the impudence to come and offer me part of the price to say nothing about it. No, thank you. That’s not my way of doing business.”
“There’s nothing else we can do,” said Dick.
“Oh, yes, there is. You can march off to the lockup—all three of you if you like; but one of you, anyhow. And so you will, as sure as I stand here.”
“Oh, Mr Webster, I say, please don’t say that. He never took it, really he didn’t.”
“Come, that’ll do. Twelve o’clock to-morrow, unless I get the pencil, you’ll get a call from the police. Off you go. I’ve had enough of you.”