"We're not in a mood to stand any fooling." "But won't you listen-----" began Dick, gasping.
"I'm not the trial judge," jeered Simmons.

"Still, I'll listen to you all you want, later in the night.

Now, stand forward!" Dick realized the folly and the uselessness of defying the police.
He moved nearer to the chief, as ordered.

And Prescott began to understand how black the whole affair looked for him.
But how had it happened?
He would have given worlds to know.
"Hold your hands forward, and together," commanded Chief Simmons.
Quivering, flushing with the shame of the thing, young Prescott obeyed.

The officer who fitted the handcuffs to the boy's wrists felt ashamed of his work, for he had always been one of Dick's friends.
The click of the steel ratchets brought Prescott back to a realization of things.
"I'm not much of a catch, chief," muttered the boy.