“Well,” said the captain, “then I understand you'll come round to the police court and give your testimony in the morning?” “Yes,” said the girl, with a vague, compassionate glance at Lemuel, who had stood there dumb throughout the colloquy. “If you don't, I shall have to send for you,” said the captain. “Oh, I'll _come_,” replied the girl, in a sort of disgust, and her eyes still dwelt upon Lemuel. “That's all,” returned the captain, and the girl, accepting her dismissal, went out. Now that it was too late, Lemuel could break from his nightmare. “Oh, don't let her go! I ain't the one! I was running after a fellow that passed off a counterfeit ten-dollar bill on me in the Common yesterday. I never touched her satchel. I never saw her before----” “What's that?” demanded the captain sharply. “You've got the wrong one!” cried Lemuel. “I never did anything to the girl.” “Why, you fool!” retorted the captain angrily; “why didn't you say that when she was here, instead of standing there like a dumb animal? Heigh?” Lemuel's sudden flow of speech was stopped at its source again. His lips were locked; he could not answer a word. The captain went on angrily. “If you'd spoke up in time, may be I might 'a' let you go. I don't want to do a man any harm if I can't do him some good. Next time, if you've got a tongue in your head, use it. I can't do anything for you now. I got to commit you.” He paused between his sentences, as if to let Lemuel speak, but the boy said nothing. The captain pulled his book impatiently toward him, and took up his pen. “What's your name?” “Lemuel Barker.” “I thought may be there was a mistake all the while,” said the captain to the officer, while he wrote down Lemuel's name. “But if a man hain't got sense enough to speak for himself, I can't put the words in his mouth. Age?” he demanded savagely of Lemuel. “Twenty.” “Weight?” “A hundred and thirty.” “I could see with half an eye that the girl wan't very sanguine about it. But what's the use? I couldn't tell her she was mistaken. Height?” “Five feet six.” “Occupation?” “I help mother carry on the farm.” “Just as I expected!” cried the captain. “Slow as a yoke of oxen. Residence?” “Willoughby Pastures.” The captain could not contain himself. “Well, Willoughby Pastures,--or whatever your name is,--you'll get yourself into the papers _this_ time, _sure_. And I must say it serves you right. If you can't speak for yourself, who's going to speak for you, do you suppose? Might send round to the girl's house----No, she wouldn't be there, ten to one. You've got to go through now. Next time don't be such an infernal fool.” The captain blotted his book and shut it.