“What sort of game are yez tryin’ to put up on us here?” demanded the policeman, angrily.  “Here, take yer book—­”

“She’s as much guilty of theft as if there had been a hundred dollars in it,” said Farmer Weeks, recovering from his dismay at the exposure of the trick.  “You arrest her or I’ll—­”

“What will yez do, ye spalpeen?” said the policeman.  “If ye get gay wid me I’ll run yez in—­and don’t be afther forgettin’ that, either!”

As he spoke he turned, angrily, to observe a small boy who was tugging at his sleeve.

“Say, mister, say,” begged the boy, “listen here a minute, will yer?  I seen the old guy slip his purse into her pocket.  She never took it.”

Tom’s eyes, as he heard, lighted up.

“By Gad, Mike, that’s what he did!” he exclaimed.  “Did you hear how ready he was to tell just which pocket she had it in?  How’d he have known that—­unless he put it there, eh?”

“It’s a lie!” stormed Farmer Weeks.  “Here, are you going to lock that girl up as a thief or not?”

“Indade and I’m not,” said the officer, warmly.  “Drop her wrist—­quick!”

He stepped forward as he spoke, and Weeks, seeing by the gleam in the Irishman’s eye that he had gone too far, quickly released Bessie.  As she moved away from him he stood still, red-eyed and trembling with rage.

“An’ what’s more, you old scalawag,” said the policeman, “I’m going to run you in.  Maybe you never heard tell of perjury, but it’s worse than pickin’ pockets, let me tell you.”

His heavy hand dropped to Weeks’ shoulder, but he was too slow.  With a yell of fright the old farmer, displaying an agility with which no one would have been ready to credit him, turned and dove headlong through the crowd.

The policeman started to give chase, but Tom Norris restrained him.  He was laughing heartily.

“What’s the use?  Let him be, Mike,” he said.  “My, but it was as good as a play to see you handle him.  Gosh!  Watch the old beggar run, will you?”

Indeed, Weeks was running as fast as he could, and, even as they watched him, he disappeared inside the station.

“That’s a good riddance.  Maybe he’ll go home and stay there,” said the conductor.  “He won’t try his dirty tricks on you again,” he added, turning to Bessie.  “If he does, you’ll have a friend in Mike, here.”

“True for you, Tom Norris!” said the policeman.  “I’m glad ye turned up, boy.  Ye saved me from makin’ a fool of meself, I’m thinkin’.  The old omadhoun!  To think he’d put up a job like that on a slip of a girl, and him ould enough to be her father—­or her grandfather!”

“Well, I’ve helped you out again, haven’t I?” said Tom Norris.  “Are you living here in the city now?  Suppose you tell me why old Weeks is so mean to you, now that we’ve the time.”

“I will, and gladly,” said Bessie.  “But I haven’t so very much time.  Can you walk with me as I go home?”