No, no! I heard some one walking
on the gallery--a thief, I thought. I crawled out of my window with my
shotgun. I--but I oughtn't to tell you this. You must let me go. I'll
never tell on you, I swear--"
"Wait a minute," interrupted the clown, laying his arm over the boy's
shoulder. "We'll talk it over with Mrs. Braddock. She can tell by
lookin' in your eyes whether you're good or bad. As far as I'm
concerned, I don't believe you did it. Yes, yes, that's all right!
Don't hug me, sonny. Here she is. She's the wife of the man wot owns
the show."
Mrs. Braddock crossed over to them, smiling. It was not until she
opened her lips to speak of the compliment his appetite had paid to
the cook tent that she perceived the look in his eyes. Then she
glanced at the serious face of the clown.
"This 'ere chap, ma'am," said Grinaldi, in low, level tones, "is David
Jenison, the boy wanted for that murder near Richmond last week.
You've seen the reward bills. His grandfather, you remember--"
She drew back; her eyes dilated, her lips stiff. "You are the Jenison
boy?" she said slowly, even unbelievingly.
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