"Then after that," Hugh was saying to himself, "he sold a pair of his
pet pigeons, and I reckon he thinks a heap of them, from all I've
heard said. Yes, Nick must have wanted my old skates worse than he
ever did anything in all his life. And when I refused to sell them
to him he just thought he'd do the trading by himself. It's a queer
way of doing business, and one the law wouldn't recognize; but, after
all, it was an upward step for Nick Lang, when he could have taken
the skates, and kept the cash as well. This certainly beats the
Dutch! What ought I to do about it, I wonder? Of course, if I told
the whole thing to mother, I suppose she'd let me have the new skates
ahead of time; or I could borrow Kenneth Kinkaid's, because, after
breaking his leg that way in the running race he says he isn't to be
allowed to skate a bit this winter. But ought I let the scamp keep
my skates?"

He mused over it for several minutes, as if undecided. Then the
sound of voices outside caught his attention. One seemed to be gruff
and official, another whining.

Hugh jumped up and stepped to a window. He could see down the street
on which the Morgan home stood. Three persons were in sight, and
hurrying along toward the house. One of these he recognized as his
chum, Thad, who must have returned from Hobson's mill-pond earlier
than he had expected. Another was the tall, attenuated Chief
Wambold; and the party whom he was gripping by the arm--yes, it was
none other than Hugh's late visitor, Nick Lang!

"Oh, they've caught him, it seems, just like those awful police did
poor, wicked Jean Valjean," Hugh muttered, thrilled by the sight;