"Don't you think," Tom Woods said, "that you're a little bit late asking that question? You don't know me from the King of Denmark. If I walked into your store to-night and requested you to sell me a suit of clothes on credit, what would you do?"
"I'd demand references. I'd want to know something about you."
"Exactly. But you permitted Bert to stay over night at my place and never inquired what caliber of man I was. I couldn't have one of your suits, but I could have your boy. Isn't it rather late to probe into what my influence over him has been?"
A flush of anger was rising in Mr. Quinby's cheeks. "Do you know anything about what caused this thing to-day?"
"Yes; do you?"
"No."
"You saw him at the police station."
"He didn't tell me. He reserves his confidences for those outside the family."
"Did you," Tom Woods said sharply, "bother to ask him? Great Christopher, don't you know your own son? Is there anything about him that would stamp him as a thug? Something must have happened to fire him enough to commit an assault. What was it? You don't know? You didn't even take the trouble to get his side of the story. You've condemned him without a hearing."
