"And is that all? Have you told only half your story, Humphrey?"

This direct question made me still more uncomfortable, especially
as my father's eyes were sternly bent upon me. He hated lies, and
half truths still more, and I could see that he was dimly
suspecting me of a complicity in Joe Punchard's action to which I
had not confessed. But Captain Galsworthy was a shrewd old man, and
he saw at once how the matter stood.

"No peaching, eh, lad?" he said kindly. "I've an inquisitive turn
of mind, and after that performance with the barrel--and it was a
monstrous comical sight, Ellery, to see the little alderman skip
out of the way when the barrel made straight for his shins, but not
so funny when he pulls at the shock head sticking out and finds it
belongs to his own son--after that performance, I say, I caught
young Dick Cludde by the ear, and made him tell me the story. And
it begins with apples--like this excellent cider of yours, Ellery."

He quaffed a deep draught and leaned back in his chair, giving me
another friendly wink. The captain was ever somewhat long winded
over his stories, and I could see that my father was growing
impatient; but he sat back in his chair with his hands upon the
arms and said never a word.

"Young Cludde and Cyrus Vetch, it seems, have a sweet tooth for
your apples, Ellery," said the captain, "and Cludde told me with a
fine indignation that Humphrey flatly refused to fill his pockets
for their behoof. They were proceeding to enforce their
requisition, I gather, when the boy broke from them, and, finding
himself hard pressed by and by, took refuge behind Joe Punchard's