Jeremy came in from his morning walk, his cheeks crimson, looking very nautical in his blue reefer coat. He went straight up to his room, locked the door, and opened the play-box. The parcels were all there. He counted them, felt them, sighed a sigh of satisfaction and pride, then closed the play-box again.

He took off his coat and went downstairs. Helen, meeting him in the hall, cried:

“Oh, Jeremy, father wants to see you.”

“Where?”

“In the study.”

Jeremy paused. The word “study” had always a strangely disagreeable sound. Their father never wished to see any of them there unless for some very unpleasant purpose. He threw his mind back. What had he been doing? What sin had he within the last day or two committed? He could think of nothing. His parcels had kept him quiet. Both he and Hamlet had been very good.

Only Aunt Amy had spoken to him about sulking. But that had been over a week ago. No, he had been very good. There could be nothing. Nevertheless, he walked down the hall with slow and hesitating step. Hamlet wanted to come with him. He had to stop him. Hamlet sat down near the door and watched him enter with anxious eyes. He did not like Mr. Cole.

The study was a close, dark room lined with book-shelves, rows and rows of theological works all dusty and forlorn. In the middle of the left wall between the book-shelves hung a large photograph of the Forum, Rome, and on the similar space on the other wall a photograph of the Parthenon. Behind a large desk sat Mr. Cole, very thin, very black, very white. His small son stood on the other side of the desk and looked at him.

“Well, my boy, what is it?”

“Helen said you wanted me.” He shifted from one foot to the other and looked anxiously at the Forum.

“Did I? Ah, let me see.... What was it? Hum, ha. Ah, yes. Of course. It’s your journey-money. I should have asked you many days ago. I thought your mother had taken it. She had apparently forgotten.”

Journey-money? Of what was he talking? Journey-money?

“What journey-money, father?” Even as he spoke his voice faltered, because, although he still did not know in the least of what his father was speaking, danger hovered suddenly near him like a large black bird, the wings obliterating the dusty light. Mr. Cole, who had much to do, grew a little impatient.

“Yes, yes. The money that we sent to your master for your journey home. Your mother fancied, from what Mr. Thompson wrote to her, that she had not sent quite enough on earlier occasions, that the former sum had not been quite sufficient. This time we sent at least a pound more than the fare demanded.”

The bird came closer. Even now he did not understand, but his throat was dry and his heart was beating violently.

“The money that Mr. Thompson gave me the day before the end of term?”

“Yes, yes, my boy.”

“He gave me fifteen shillings and the ticket.”

“Well, let me have it.”

“I spent it.”

There was a pause. Mr. Cole stared at his son.

“What do you say?”

“I spent it, father.”

“What?”

“I spent it.”

Fright now was upon him—terror, panic. But behind the panic, like the resolution under torture not to betray one’s friend, was the resolve never, never to say upon what the money had been spent.

“What?”

“I haven’t got it, father. I thought it was for me.”

“You thought it was for you?”

“Yes. Mr. Thompson didn’t say anything about it—only that it was for the journey.”

“And did you spend it on the journey?”

There was no answer.

“Will you kindly tell me how, having already your ticket, you managed to spend one pound between your school and your home?”

He felt the tears rising, and desperately beat them back. How he hated those tears that came always, it seemed, when one least wished to cry.

“It wasn’t a pound.” One tear came, hesitated and fell. “It was—fifteen shillings.”

“Very well, then. Will you kindly explain to me how you spent fifteen shillings?”

No answer.

“Jeremy, how old are you?”

“Ten—and a—half.”

“Ten and a half. Very well. You have been a year and a half at school. You are quite old enough to understand. Do you know what you have done?”

Tears now were falling fast.

“You have stolen this money.”

No word.

“Do you know what they call someone who steals money?”

No answer.

“They call him a thief.”

Through convulsive sobs there came:

“I didn’t steal it.”

“Do not add lying to the rest.” Mr. Cole got up. “Come with me to your room.”

They walked into the hall. Hamlet was waiting, and sprang forward. At once he saw in the sobbing figure of his master trouble and disaster. His head fell, his tail crept between his legs. He slowly followed the procession, only looking at Mr. Cole’s black legs with longing. Upstairs they went, up through the tranquil and happy house. Barbara was being bathed; gurgling and applause and the splash of water came from the bathroom. They were in Jeremy’s room, the door closed—Hamlet on the other side.

Jeremy stood, the tears drying on his face, his sobs coming in convulsive spasms.

“I am determined to know what you have done with this money—on what you have spent it.”

There was no answer.

“It is of no use to be obstinate, Jeremy. Tell me—on what have you spent this money?”

He looked about him. There must be something in the room that would show him. Not many things here. The little case with some books, the pictures of “Napoleon on the Bellerophon” and “The Charge of the Light Brigade,” the white bed and wash-hand stand, the chest of drawers.... Then his eye fell on the play-box. He went to it and opened it.

Jeremy gave a long, convulsive sigh. Then, between his sobs: “Father—please. I’ll get the money. I will really. I didn’t know it was wrong. Those are mine—they break, two of them. I’ll get the money. I will really. Please, father.”

A word here is needed in defence of Mr. Cole. A word is not in truth necessary. His action was inevitable. He truly loved his son, and because of that very love he was now shocked to the depth of his soul. His son was a thief. His son had lied and stolen. He was old enough to know what he was about. To himself, who had been brought up in a poverty that was martyrdom and an honesty that was fanatical, no sin could be worse than this save only the sins of the flesh. For more than two years now he had been troubled by Jeremy, seeing many signs in him of a nature very different from his own, signs of independence, rebellion and, as it seemed to him, hardness of heart and selfishness. Now the boy was a thief, deliberately spending money that did not belong to him in the hopes that his parents would forget....

He bent over his play-box, saw the parcels so neatly laid out there, took one up in his hand. He looked back at his son.

“What is this, Jeremy?”

There was no answer.

“Did you get these things with the money?”

“Yes, father.” Then he said, “They’re presents for Christmas.”

“Presents!”

Mr. Cole took up first one parcel, then another, holding them up to the light. Then, very slowly, with that deliberation with which he did everything, he undid the parcels. Jeremy said nothing, only stood there, his face white and dirty where the tears had left marks, his legs apart, his fists clenched.

One after another they were laid bare and placed upon the bed; rather pitiful they looked. A white-backed hair brush, a coral necklace, a little brooch of silver-gilt, a pair of woollen gloves, a baby’s coral, a story book, a dog collar, two handkerchiefs, a work-box, a cheap copy in a cheap frame of “Dignity and Impudence,” a tea caddy. Obviously all the servants had been included in this—no one had been forgotten. Had not Mr. Cole been so wholly and so truly shocked by his son’s wickedness he must have been touched by the thought that had plainly gone to the buying of each gift. But imagination was not Mr. Cole’s strongest part.

Jeremy watched him. Suddenly he broke out:

“Father, don’t take them away. Let me give them to-morrow. You can punish me any way you like. You can beat me or take away my pocket money for ever or anything you like—but let me give them to-morrow. Please, father. Please, father.”

“That must be part of your punishment, my son,” Mr. Cole said very sorrowfully and finding it difficult to balance the things one upon another in his arms.

In another second of time, Jeremy was upon him, screaming, beating with his fists, scratching with his hands, crying:

“You shan’t take them! You shan’t take them! They’re mine! You’re wicked! You’re wicked! They’re my things! You shan’t take them!”

He was mad, wild, frantic. His hands were round his father’s thigh, his head beating against his father’s chest, his legs kicking against his father’s calves.

He screamed like something not human.

For a moment Mr. Cole was almost carried off his balance. The things that he was carrying—the hair brush, the necklace, the picture—went tumbling on the floor.

Then Jeremy was picked up and, still kicking and breathless, flung on to the bed.

Then the door closed and the boy was alone.