"The damned skunk didn't have no gun! All he had was a flashlight, and
I broke that over his head. But he tole me the same story about the
jailer--all except the gun." This testimony was volunteered by Poole's
cellmate.

Peter removed his cigar and looked at the "damned skunk" more closely.

"Why, if it ain't Mr. Poole!" he said.

"Sure, it's Poole. What in hell does he mean, then--swearin' you into
jail and then breakin' you out?"

"Hadn't you better ask him?" said Peter, very reasonably. "You come on
down to the office, sheriff. I want you to get at the bottom of this or
have the heart out of some one." He rolled a dancing eye at Poole with
the word, and Poole shrank before it.

"Breakfast! Bring us our breakfast!" bawled the prisoners. "Breakfast!"

The sheriff dealt leniently with the uproar, realizing that these were
but weakling folk and, under the influence of excitement, hardly
responsible.

"Brooks has been tied up all night, and is all but dead. I'll get you
something as soon as I can," he said, "on condition that you stop that
hullabaloo at once. Johnson, come down to the office."

He telephoned a hurry call to a restaurant, Brooks, the jailer, being
plainly incapable of furnishing breakfast. Then he turned to Pete.