I'll be bound of that, sir," the woman interrupted. "Dick was ever a
lad to be trusted. The hotel people will tell you that. He's been here
several years and there's never been a thing against him. I blame myself
for getting him into this trouble, for without meaning to I put
temptation in his way. I know that what he's told you is the living
truth, and I pray you'll try and believe him and let him go. If harm was
to come to the lad through me I'd never forgive myself. Let the boy go
free and put the blame on me, if you must arrest somebody. I'm older and
it doesn't so much matter; but it's terrible to start a child of his
age in as a criminal. The name will follow him through life. He'll
never get rid of it and have a fair chance. Punish me but let the little
chap go, I beg of you," pleaded the woman, with streaming eyes.

Mr. Ackerman cleared his throat; it was plain that the simple eloquence
of the request had touched him deeply.

"With your permission, officer, I am going to withdraw my charge," he
said, with a tremor in his voice. "You are to let both these persons go
scot free. You, my good woman, meant well but acted foolishly. As for
the boy, Donovan, I will assume the responsibility for him."

"You are willing to stand behind him, Mr. Ackerman?"

"I am."

The detective turned toward the boy who had risen and was fumbling
awkwardly with the brass buttons adorning his uniform.

"You hear, Dick Martin, what the gentleman says," began he impressively.
"He believes you are a good boy, and as you have handed back the
valuables in your possession he is going to take a chance on you and let
you go."

A wave of crimson swept over the face of the boy and for the first time
the tension in the youthful countenance relaxed.

"But Mr. Ackerman," Donovan continued, "expects you are going to behave
yourself in future and never do such a thing again."

"I am going to see your father, Dick," broke in Mr. Ackerman's kindly
voice, "and talk with him and--"

"I haven't any father," declared the lad.

"Your mother then."

"I've no mother either."

"Who do you live with?"

"Mr. Aronson."

"Is he a relative?"

"Oh, no, sir! I haven't any relatives. There's nobody belongin' to me.
Mr. Aronson is the tailor downstairs where I sleep. When I ain't working
here I do errands for him and he lets me have a cot in a room with four
other boys--newsboys, bell hops and the like. We pay two dollars between
us for the room and