“Thought you were a good lad, Lancaster.”
“Not much use being good, sir,” growled Bobbie, “when your luck’s against you.”
The father, an old policeman, enjoying this echo of the old days, repeated and added to his report of Miss Nutler’s condition, remarking sagely that extreme violence must have been used.
“We’ll investigate it fully to-morrow,” commanded the Superintendent. “No time now. Meanwhile you’ll stay at home, my lad.”
“What?” said Bobbie, amazedly. “And not play at the show?”
“And not play at the show. Some one else must be found to take your place. I’m sorry.”
The boy swallowed something in his throat, and his under lip twitched. He looked round at the framed list of rules on the wall, at the papers on the table, and at everything in the room with a dazed air.
“I’m a—a bit sorry about it, too,” he said gloomily.
“Rules are rules,” mentioned the Superintendent.
“Someone shall suffer for it,” declared the boy, with sudden fierceness. “I ain’t going to be jumped on just because—”