“What journey-money, father?” Even as he spoke his voice faltered, because, although he still did not know in the least of what his father was speaking, danger hovered suddenly near him like a large black bird, the wings obliterating the dusty light. Mr. Cole, who had much to do, grew a little impatient. “Yes, yes. The money that we sent to your master for your journey home. Your mother fancied, from what Mr. Thompson wrote to her, that she had not sent quite enough on earlier occasions, that the former sum had not been quite sufficient. This time we sent at least a pound more than the fare demanded.” The bird came closer. Even now he did not understand, but his throat was dry and his heart was beating violently. “The money that Mr. Thompson gave me the day before the end of term?” “Yes, yes, my boy.” “He gave me fifteen shillings and the ticket.” “Well, let me have it.” “I spent it.” There was a pause. Mr. Cole stared at his son. “What do you say?” “I spent it, father.” “What?” “I spent it.” Fright now was upon him—terror, panic. But behind the panic, like the resolution under torture not to betray one’s friend, was the resolve never, never to say upon what the money had been spent. “_What?_” “I haven’t got it, father. I thought it was for me.” “You thought it was for you?” “Yes. Mr. Thompson didn’t say anything about it—only that it was for the journey.” “And did you spend it on the journey?” There was no answer. “Will you kindly tell me how, having already your ticket, you managed to spend one pound between your school and your home?” He felt the tears rising, and desperately beat them back. How he hated those tears that came always, it seemed, when one least wished to cry. “It wasn’t a pound.” One tear came, hesitated and fell. “It was—fifteen shillings.” “Very well, then. Will you kindly explain to me how you spent fifteen shillings?” No answer. “Jeremy, how old are you?” “Ten—and a—half.” “Ten and a half. Very well. You have been a year and a half at school. You are quite old enough to understand. Do you know what you have done?” Tears now were falling fast. “You have stolen this money.” No word. “Do you know what they call someone who steals money?” No answer. “They call him a thief.” Through convulsive sobs there came: “I didn’t steal it.” “Do not add lying to the rest.” Mr. Cole got up. “Come with me to your room.” They walked into the hall. Hamlet was waiting, and sprang forward. At once he saw in the sobbing figure of his master trouble and disaster. His head fell, his tail crept between his legs. He slowly followed the procession, only looking at Mr. Cole’s black legs with longing. Upstairs they went, up through the tranquil and happy house. Barbara was being bathed; gurgling and applause and the splash of water came from the bathroom. They were in Jeremy’s room, the door closed—Hamlet on the other side. Jeremy stood, the tears drying on his face, his sobs coming in convulsive spasms.