"What you tryin' to do?" demanded the constable. "That's town
property."

In the light of the constable's lantern, Winthrop surveyed his
cell with extreme dissatisfaction.

"I call this a cheap cell," he said.

"It's good enough for a cheap sport," returned the constable.
It was so overwhelming a retort that after the constable had
turned the key in the padlock, and taken himself and his
lantern to the floor above, Winthrop could hear him repeating
it to the volunteer firemen. They received it with delighted
howls.

For an hour, on the three empty boxes that formed his bed,
Winthrop sat, with his chin on his fists, planning the
nameless atrocities he would inflict upon the village of
Fairport. Compared to his tortures, those of Neuremberg were
merely reprimands. Also he considered the particular
punishment he would mete out to Sam Forbes for his desertion
of his sister, and to Fred. He could not understand Fred. It
was not like the chauffeur to think only of himself.
Nevertheless, for abandoning Miss Forbes in the hour of need,
Fred must be discharged. He had, with some regret, determined
upon this discipline, when from directly over his head the
voice of Fred hailed him cautiously.

"Mr. Winthrop," the voice called, "are you there?"