Jones had two wants and voiced them promptly.

"Give me a quart of rye, Tom, and a couple of knock-out drops."

Mr. Martin jumped in his chair and shot a nervous glance at the men in
the outer room. "The rye's all right--you've got some wiges comin' ter
yer an' I'll take it out o' them. But I don't know nothin' about them
other things, Drusilla. Wot are they?"

"Don't try the baby-innocent act on me, Tom! I want some knock-out
drops, same's you put in the beer of that drummer from the city last
Tuesday night--and I mean to have 'em!"

Hers was a carrying voice, and she was speaking with fearful
distinctness. A visible shudder ran through Mr. Martin's slender frame
as he sprang to his feet and hurriedly shut the door.

"All right, Drusilla, you can have 'em--but fer the luv o' Mike don't
tell th' blinkin' world abaht it! Wotcher want 'em for?"

"What you don't know won't hurt you," responded the girl.

That gave him pause, but in the end she had her way after some cajolery
and a few loud threats. She left the premises with a paper parcel in
her hand and the wished-for pellets in her bag.

Her house was not far removed from the police station, in the rear of
which was the small square building that served as a lockup for such
casual unfortunates as were not of a quality to be sent to the county
jail. Here Charlie Maxon was incarcerated, his quarters consisting of
a small room with a grille door and a barred window too high for
anything but light and ventilation. The only additional deterrent to
his escape was to be found in the person of a nondescript elderly man
who received a dollar a day from the town funds to act as jailer when
the lockup was in use. His name was Moody, his chief characteristic
the determined grouch he had cherished since the advent of prohibition.

He was seated on the stone steps of the jail, smoking a small but
powerful pipe, when Drusilla Jones appeared from the direction of her
house. She bore a basket in one hand, its contents scrupulously
covered with a white napkin. It was about six o'clock.

"Good evening, Mr. Moody!"

"Hullo."

"I've brought a few things I've cooked myself for Charlie's dinner,"
she informed him. "Want to look 'em over?" She put down the basket
and whipped off the napkin, replacing it when the jailer had cast a
gloomy eye over the contents and signified his satisfaction with a nod.
"Come and unlock the door so I can give it to him, there's an old d