clambered into bed and waited for whatever wrath there was to come.
Of the interview between Mr. and Mrs. Flynn he heard only the muffled shrill voice of the wife interrogating silences. He lay on his back, his legs and arms spread wide—ready to resist any attempt to turn him over and expose his vulnerable rear—wondering, dully, whether his mother would succeed in extorting a confession from his partner in crime. He himself was prepared to endure all the mythical tortures of the "t'ird degree" rather than speak a word that might betray his faithful confederate. At the same time, he saw himself, on the very edge of his doom, saved from paying the final penalty of his silence by the magnanimous interference of his father. "I am in-no-cent!" he would cry. And his father, rushing into the room, would shout: "And my evidence will prrrove it!"
He stiffened at the sound of approaching footsteps, bracing himself from his heels to his elbows. Mrs. Flynn threw open the door. She had a light in one hand and the strap in the other. He saw that she had been crying. He shut his eyes, instinctively hardening his heart.
"Mickey now," she pleaded, "tell me how yeh come be the money. Tell me the truth, an' I 'll not lick yeh. Tell me, child."
He answered stubbornly: "Some one give 't to me."
"Who was it?"
"Some one."
"That ain't the truth, Mickey."
