"Mercy on us! Surely you are not regretting that you landed him in jail." "No-o. Still, I'm sorry for him." "Of course. We're always sorry to see a person of his ability go wrong. But he has only himself to thank for his fate. He might have known at the outset where he would bring up. They all are trapped sooner or later." "I suppose so." "Come, come, son! Don't go wasting any romantic sympathy on Stuart--or whatever his name is. He wouldn't appreciate it. Why, he would rob us again to-morrow if he got the chance," the head of the firm asserted harshly. "Probably he would." "You know he would." "Y-es. But he was such a good sport." "He knew there was nothing to be gained by whining and making himself disagreeable." Nevertheless, in spite of his father's arguments, Christopher could not entirely put the unlucky Stuart out of his mind. Nor did the fried scallops, grilled sweet potatoes, and salad which his father ordered for him wholly blot out a lurking depression or the haunting memory of the criminal's face. It took two chocolate ice creams and an ample square of fudge cake to dispel his gloom and bring his spirits back to their accustomed cheerfulness. By the time he and his father returned to the store, however, they were practically normal, and he ascended to the fourth floor to hunt up McPhearson, who amid the general excitement he had left somewhat abruptly. "Well, so you landed your light-fingered friend, did you, laddie?" remarked the Scotchman. "Mr. Corrigan did." "It was thanks to you, I guess." "Partly!" "Humph! You don't seem very triumphant about it." The old man peered at the boy over the top of his glasses. "I'm not. It made me sick--the whole thing." "I know, sonny--I know. But we can't have such persons about," McPhearson said gently. "Of course you are sorry to put a fellow behind the bars, but--" "He was so darned decent about it--and so plucky," exclaimed Christopher. "Why, he was almost a gentleman." The sentence ended in a tremulous laugh. "No doubt he may have started out to be a gentleman--poor chap--and then got on the wrong track. Well, you did what was right. You know that." "I hope so," was the dull answer. "We'll not talk about it any more. Come, let's shift the subject to something else." "To clocks?" "Aren't you tired of clocks?" "No. Are you?" "I never get tired of them," smiled McPhearson. "If I did, it would be fatal. They are my daily bread." "And mine, too, for that matter," rejoined Christopher. "Perhaps," admitted the Scotchman. "Still you do not subsist wholly on clocks. Your bread is studded with pearls, emeralds, and rubies." The fancy pleased the boy, and he laughed. "Rather indigestible eating," he protested. "And yet you look fit as a king." There was a moment's pause; then the man said: "Well, if we are to talk clocks, where shall we begin?" "Anywhere you like," returned the lad, with a shrug of his shoulders.