"But then I prefer to regard you as a deep-dyed desperado--you must be
quite--er--sixteen! Consequently it is my duty to croak you on the spot,
or hand you over to the police--"

"No, no!" cried the boy, his tremulous hands reached out in a passion
of supplication, "not d' cops--don't let th' p'lice get me. Oh, I never
took nothin' from nobody--lemme go! Be a sport and let me beat it,
please, sir!"

All Mr. Ravenslee's chronic languor seemed to have returned as, leaning
back in the deep-cushioned chair, he regarded this youthful malefactor
with sleepy eyes, yet eyes that missed nothing of the boy's quivering
earnestness as he continued, breathlessly:

"Oh, I ain't a real crook, I never done nothin' like this before, an'
I never will again if--if you'll only let me chase meself--"

"And now," sighed Mr. Ravenslee, "I'll trouble you for the 'phone,
yonder."

"Are ye goin' to--call in de cops?"

"That is my intention. Give me the 'phone."

"No!" cried the boy, and springing before the telephone he stood there,
trembling but defiant.

"Give me that telephone!"