“Don’t look scared to death, Prescott,” urged Dr. Thornton, with a faint attempt at a smile.  “We want to go through with a little formality—–­that is all.  This matter at the High School has puzzled me to such a degree that I left early today and went to consult with Mr. Hemingway.  Now, he thought it best that we come around here and have a talk with you.”

“I can begin that talk best,” pursued Hemingway, “by asking you, Prescott, whether you have anything that you want to say first-off?”

“I can’t say anything,” replied Dick, slowly, “except that I know nothing as to how any of the articles missed at school came to vanish.  Ripley’s pin was found in my pocket today, and I can only guess that some one—–­Ripley, perhaps dropped it in my pocket.  Ripley has some feelings of enmity for me, anyway.  We had a fight last week, and—–­” Dick could not repress a smile—–­“I thrashed him so that he was out of school for several days.”

“But Ripley was not at school for the last few days, until today,” broke in Dr. Thornton.  “Now, a pin and a watch were missed while Ripley was not attending school.”

“I know it, sir,” Dick nodded.  “As to those two articles I cannot offer even the ghost of an explanation.”

“I don’t like to accuse you of taking Ripley’s scarf-pin, nor do I like to suspect him of putting up such a contemptible trick,” explained Dr. Thornton, thoughtfully.  “As far as the incident of the scarf-pin goes I am willing to admit that your explanation is just as likely to be good as is any other.”

“Prescott, what did you do with the other pin and the watch?” shot in Policeman Hemingway, suddenly and compellingly.

It was well done.  Had Dick been actually guilty, he might either have betrayed himself, or gone to stammering.  But, as it was, he smiled, wanly, as he replied: 

“I didn’t do anything with them, Mr. Hemingway.  I have just been explaining that.”

“How much money have you about you at this moment?” demanded Hemingway.

“Two cents, I believe,” laughed Dick, beginning to turn out his pockets.  He produced the two copper coins, and held them out to the special officer.

“You may have more about you, then, somewhere,” hinted the officer.

“Find it, then,” begged Dick, frankly, as he stepped forward.  “Search me.  I’ll allow it, and shall be glad to have you do it.”

So Policeman Hemingway made the search, with the speed and skill of an expert.

“No; you’ve no more money about you,” admitted the policeman.  “You may have some put away, though.”

“Where would it be likely to be?” Dick inquired.

“In your room, perhaps; in your baggage, or hidden behind books; oh, there’s a lot of places where a boy can hide money in his own room.”

“Come along and show me a few of them, then, won’t you please?” challenged the young freshman.

Mrs. Prescott, who had been hovering near the doorway, gave a gasp of dismay.  To her tortured soul this police investigation seemed to be the acme of disgrace.  It all pointed to the arrest of her boy—–­to a long term in some jail or reformatory, most likely.