“Now tell me why you killed him.”

He smiled and asked:

“Cock Robin or President Lincoln?”

“You’re not going to admit offhand that you killed Donald Willsson?”

“I don’t want to be disagreeable,” he said, still smiling, “but I’d rather not.”

“That’s going to make it bad,” I complained. “We can’t stand here and argue very long without being interrupted. Who’s the stout party with cheaters coming this way?”

The boy’s face pinkened. He said:

“ Mr. Dritton, the cashier.”

“Introduce me.”