sheriff. I thought you wouldn't like it. Say, you ought to sit down,
feller. You're going to have apoplexy one of these days, sure as you're a
foot high!"

"You come downstairs with me," said the angry Barton. "I'll get at the
bottom of this or I'll have your heart out of you."

"All right, sheriff. Just you wait till I get dressed." Peter laced
his shoes, put on his hat, and laid tie, coat, and vest negligently
across the hollow of his arm. "I can't do my tie good unless I got a
looking-glass," he explained, and paused to light a cigar. "Have one,
sheriff," he said with hospitable urgency.

"Get out of here!" shouted the enraged officer.

Pete tripped light-footed down the stairs. At the stairfoot the sheriff
paused. In the cell directly opposite were two bruised and tattered
inmates where there should have been but one, and that one undismantled.
The sheriff surveyed the wreckage within. His jaw dropped; his face went
red to the hair; his lip trembled as he pointed to the larger of the two
roommates, who was, beyond doubting, Amos Poole--or some remainder of
him.

"How did that man get here?" demanded the sheriff in a cracked and
horrified voice.

"Him? Oh, I throwed him in there!" said Pete lightly. "That's the man who
brought me the keys and pestered me to go away with him. Say, sheriff,
better watch out! He told me he had a gun, and that he had the jailer
tied and gagged."