"What is it? What's so funny? Damn it! I miss ever'thing!"

"I-i-it's that f-fool Tum-Tump Pack. Bobbs's arrested him!"

The inquirer was astounded.

"How the hell can he arrest him when he hit town this minute?"

"Wh-why, Bobbs had an old warrant for crap-shoot--three years old--
before the war. Just as Tump was a-coming down the street at the head of
the coons, out steps Bobbs--" Here the little man was overcome.

The merchant from the corner opened his eyes.

"Arrested him on an old crap charge?"

The little man nodded. They gazed at each other. Then they exploded
simultaneously.

Peter left his obese mother and hurried to the corner, Dawson Bobbs, the
constable, had handcuffs on Tump's wrists, and stood with his prisoner
amid a crowd of arguing negroes.

Bobbs was a big, fleshy, red-faced man, with chilly blue eyes and a
little straight slit of a mouth in his wide face. He was laughing and
chewing a sliver of toothpick.

"O Tump Pack," he called loudly, "you kain't git away from me! If you
roll bones in Hooker's Bend, you'll have to divide your winnings with
the county." Dawson winked a chill eye at the crowd in general.