You've got to
stand by me. It is your duty."
"If you belong to the Black Bear Patrol," began the boy, "and
have all the fine things you want--as the members of that patrol
do--what did you want to go an' do this thing for? What's your name?"
"George Fremont. What is yours?"
"Jimmie McGraw," was the reply. "I'm second assistant to the
private secretary to the woman who scrubs here nights. She'll
be docking me if I don't get busy," he added, with a mischievous
twinkle in his keen gray eyes. "Or, worse, she'll be comin'
in here an' findin' out what's goin' on."
"Why didn't one of you come in here before I got to the top of
the stairs?" asked Fremont, illogically. "Why did you just
happen in here in time to accuse me of doing this thing?"
"I was just beginnin' on this floor," the boy replied. "I wish now
that I hadn't come in here at all. You know what I've got to do?"
"You mean call the police?" asked Fremont.
"That's what I've got to do."
"I didn't do it. I wasn't here when it was done," exclaimed Fremont.
"You've got to listen to me. You've got to listen to me, and believe
what I say. It is your duty to do so."
"What did you want to go and be a Boy Scout an' do such a thing for?"
demanded the boy. "Boy Scouts don't protect robbers, or murderers.
You know I've got to go an' call the police. There ain't nothin'
else I can do."
"If you call the police now," Fremont urged, "you'll rob me of every
chance to prove that I am innocent.
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