"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."

"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