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Sam French stopped short in the dusty road and stared at Dan in undisguised amazement.

“Dan Phillips,” he ejaculated, “have you plum gone out of your mind? Boy alive, you needn’t be afraid that I’d peach on you. I’m too blamed glad to see anyone get the better of that old Walters, smart as he thinks himself. Gee! To dream of going to him and telling him you’ve been fishing in his pond! Why, he’ll put you in jail. You don’t know what sort of a man he is. Dad says–“

“Never mind what your dad says, Sam. My mind’s made up.”

“Dan, you chump, listen to me. That notice says ‘prosecuted according to law.’ Why, Danny, he’ll put you in prison, or fine you, or something dreadful.”

“I can’t help it if he does,” said Danny stoutly. “You get out of here, Sam French, and don’t be trying to scare me. I mean to be honest, and how can I be if I don’t own up to Mr. Walters that I’ve been stealing his trout all summer?”

“Stealing, fiddlesticks! Dan, I used to think you were a chap with some sense, but I see I was mistaken. You ain’t done no harm. Walters will never miss them trout. If you’re so dreadful squeamish that you won’t fish no more, why, you needn’t. But just let the matter drop and hold your tongue about it. That’s my advice.”

“Well, it isn’t my mother’s, then. I mean to go by hers. You needn’t argue no more, Sam. I’m going.”

“Go, then!” said Sam, stopping short in disgust. “You’re a big fool, Dan, and serve you right if Walters lands you off to jail; but I don’t wish you no ill. If I can do anything for your family after you’re gone, I will, and I’ll try and give your remains Christian burial–if there are any remains. So long, Danny! Give my love to old Walters!”

Dan was not greatly encouraged by this interview. He shrank more than ever from the thought of facing the stern factory owner. His courage had almost evaporated when he entered the office at the factory and asked shakily for Mr. Walters.

“He’s in his office there,” replied the clerk, “but he’s very busy. Better leave your message with me.”

“I must see Mr. Walters himself, please,” said Dan firmly, but with inward trepidation.

The clerk swung himself impatiently from his stool and ushered Dan into Mr. Walters’s private office.

“Boy to see you, sir,” he said briefly, as he closed the ground-glass door behind him.

Dan, dizzy and trembling, stood in the dreaded presence. Mr. Walters was writing at a table covered with a businesslike litter of papers. He laid down his pen and looked up with a frown as the clerk vanished. He was a stern-looking man with deep-set grey eyes and a square, clean-shaven chin. There was not an ounce of superfluous flesh on his frame, and his voice and manner were those of the decided, resolute, masterful man of business.

He pointed to a capacious leather chair and said concisely, “What is your business with me, boy?”

Dan had carefully thought out a statement of facts beforehand, but every word had vanished from his memory. He had only a confused, desperate consciousness that he had a theft to confess and that it must be done as soon as possible. He did not sit down.

“Please, Mr. Walters,” he began desperately, “I came to tell you–your notice–I never saw it before–and I’ve been fishing on your pond all summer–but I didn’t know–honest–I’ve brought you all I caught today–and I’ll pay back for them all–some time.”

An amused, puzzled expression crossed Mr. Walters’s noncommittal face. He pushed the leather chair forward.

“Sit down, my boy,” he said kindly. “I don’t quite understand this somewhat mixed-up statement of yours. You’ve been fishing on my pond, you say. Didn’t you see my notice in the Advertiser?“

Dan sat down more composedly. The revelation was over and he was still alive.