She made a grab at my arm.
“So you’re the thief, are you? A nice trade you’ve started at, young master, so I can tell you!”
“Oh,” I cried, in the utmost alarm and terror, “you’re quite wrong, you are indeed. I never touched them—I only—I—I know who did, that’s all.”
Mrs Trotter still held me fast.
“Oh, you know who did, do you?”
“Yes—he’s a—” I was going to say “shoeblack,” but I stopped myself in time, and said, “a little boy.”
She released her grasp, greatly to my relief, and waited for me to go on.
“And I really don’t think he knows any better,” said I, recovering my confidence.
“Well,” she said, eyeing me sharply.
“Well,” I said, “I know the proper thing would be to give him up to the police.”