Jim said nothing, but it was not long before he led the way through a front gate, around through a shrubberied houseyard, and right in at a kitchen door.
“Aunt Betty?” he exclaimed.
“Jim!” almost screamed Mrs. Bronson, Springing forward to throw her arms around his neck. “You? Here?—O, my boy! My boy! I’m so glad! What would your mother say, if she were alive!—They didn’t catch you, did they?”
“No, Aunt Betty,” said Jim. “This is Rodney Nelson. He isn’t one of the House of Refuge boys. He and his folks helped me. I’ll tell you all about it——”
“Not now!—Not now!” she said, excitedly. “O dear! What shall I do with you! What shall I say to your uncle? It’s awful!”
“I’d say it was!” suddenly broke in a deep, strong voice in the doorway. “Worst thing could ha’ happened to me! Mrs. Bronson, I just don’t want to know it’s Jim. Wish I hadn’t happened to come——”
“Why, Squire,” she said, “it is Jim, and he’s got away from all of ’em.”
“I don’t want to do any such duty,” groaned the Squire. “It’s hard on me to have to take him. I knew his father and his mother.—Wish I wasn’t a justice-peace! Who cares what he stole!—That money——”
“That money——” came like an echo, from a voice that was drawing nearer, in the next room.
“John!” shouted Aunt Betty. “You won’t have the Squire take Jim?”