“Stealing,” said Reverend Martin, “is a sin and a crime, it is bad and we shouldn’t do it.” Who could argue with that?
After the service, the Martins invited me to have lunch with them. As a reinstated bachelor, I usually had a choice between my own cooking and fast food, so I hastily accepted.
Before the meal, I met their eight-year-old son. His grandfather had named him Barton, I hope not for the rhyme, but when he was three, someone noticed a marked resemblance to his father, a “chip off the old block,” and thereafter he was known as “Chip”.
The meal was good, but meatless. “We’re not vegetarians, but meat is so expensive,” Mrs. Martin explained apologetically. The vegetables and fruits were fresh and good, however, but Chip, a typical child, picked at them unenthusiastically.
“Oh, dear, are you feeling ill again?” his mother asked. Chip nodded. “Why don’t you go to your room and lie down?” He left.
“He seems to get this illness every few days. I hope it’s not serious or chronic.”
Before I left, I went over the case again with the Martins. “You’ve had no break-ins?”
“No.”
“Then the thefts have to occur in your house.”
I left thinking of the King’s line in The King and I: “ ‘Tis a puzzlement.”
The next day, Reverend Martin called: “It’s happened again. I took the money to the bank and four dollars was missing.” I was glad none of my money was pilfered from the collection.
As Hank and I ate our lunches, I went over the case with him. “It sure is a petty crime,” he said.
“The pettiest.”
I munched some carrot strips and an apple, while Hank enjoyed a big, delicious-looking chocolate bar. Obviously, his doctor is more lenient than mine.
I had a sudden inspiration. I went to Launcelot Andrewes Church and began to walk the streets around it in ever-widening squares. Soon I came to a corner store, Carlo’s Candyria.
“Are you open Sunday mornings?”
“Yep. Eight o’clock. Other days seven. I try to get the school and church business.”
“Sundays do you have a customer, a small boy?” I described Chip.
“Sure. He’s my best customer. Other kids buy maybe a dollar’s worth. He spends three or four bucks.”
“Thanks.” I bought a chocolate bar… for Hank. Then I went to the Martins’ home and told them of my suspicions.
“I could be completely wrong and if so, I apologize.”
That night Reverend Martin called me at home. “You were right. I asked Chip and he confessed. Each Sunday night or Monday morning he would steal a few dollars from the bag of money and the next Sunday buy and eat a horde of candy on the way to Sunday school. It explains the missing money, his lack of appetite, and his upset stomach each Sunday. He had OD’d on candy.”
“Please don’t be too hard on him.”
“We won’t . He’s promised never to do it again. He says that many of the children use their collection money to buy candy.”
“It’s no worse than betting it on horse races.”
He offered to pay me, but I declined, remembering my subterfuge with the collection plate.
The next day, I gave Hank his giant candy bar. He ate it for lunch with obvious pleasure, as I watched enviously.
“Thank you for your help, Hank.”
“Glad to be of assistance.”
I wondered which commandment would be the topic of Reverend Martin’s next sermon. Too bad there’s not one that says: “Thou shalt not gamble on horse races” or “Envy thy friend’s ability to eat sweets.”
