"A nice scrubbing-brush or--"
"'Tis you needs the scrubbing-brush, by the looks on you," said Bob,
cheekily.
"And I want you," said the constable, sharply.
"Want me? What for?" he demanded, indignantly; but his face had
suddenly turned an unhealthy gray colour, and in his eyes they could
plainly read his alarm.
"Passing bad money," answered the policeman, quietly.
"Who says so? Who brought that charge against me?"
"'Im," the policeman jerked his head and his thumb towards Bob.
"And who's he, that his word should be took agin mine? Who's to say
he hasn't been passing it himself, and--and of course he's got to put
it off on someone, when he's found out."
"Well, you can fight that out before the magistrates. You've got to
come along of me now. If you can explain it, that is all right, and
you will soon be back again."
"All right," said Tom, agreeing, because he saw the uselessness of
holding out. His brain was busy, though, trying to think out a plan.
"I must just step inside, and break it to my wife--"
"Oh yes, and empty your pockets of all the rest of the bad money
you've got!" burst out Bob, unable to control himself. "Likely tale
that, eh!"
The policeman stepped over and laid his hand on Tom Smith's
shoulder. "There's one or two other little matters too," he said.
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