"We're
not in a mood to stand any fooling."
"But won't you listen-----" began Dick, gasping.
"I'm not the trial judge," jeered Simmons. "Still, I'll listen
to you all you want, later in the night. Now, stand forward!"
Dick realized the folly and the uselessness of defying the police.
He moved nearer to the chief, as ordered. And Prescott began
to understand how black the whole affair looked for him.
But how had it happened?
He would have given worlds to know.
"Hold your hands forward, and together," commanded Chief Simmons.
Quivering, flushing with the shame of the thing, young Prescott
obeyed. The officer who fitted the handcuffs to the boy's wrists
felt ashamed of his work, for he had always been one of Dick's
friends.
The click of the steel ratchets brought Prescott back to a realization
of things.
"I'm not much of a catch, chief," muttered the boy. "You'd better
not be content with me alone. Leave me under watch and then the
rest of you had better spread through this place. I think there
are others here---the men you seek."
"You've confederates here, have you?" demanded Simmons, fixing
his suspicious gaze on the boy. "Judkins, you watch Prescott---and
mind you don't let him give you the slip. The rest of us will
keep on going through this store. You say you think there are
others here, Prescott?"
"I think so," replied the boy.
Chief Simmons raised his voice.
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