uare-jawed person who, shoving and scrooging, cleft a passage through
the applauding multitude, and slipped deftly under the ropes and laid a
detaining grasp upon the peltry-clad shoulder of the astonished Riley.
With his free hand he flipped back the lapel of his coat to display a
badge of authority pinned on the breast of his waistcoat.

"What's the main idea?" His tone was rough. "Who's the chief booze
smuggler of this outfit? How'd that barrel yonder come to be traveling
across country with a soused lion?"

"You can search me!" lied Riley glibly. "So help me, Mike, all I know is
that that barrel was slipped over on me by a big nigger that joined out
with us up here in Kentucky a week ago! I told him to get me a barrel,
meaning to teach the lion a new trick, and he stuck that one in there.
But I hadn't never got round to using it yet, and I didn't know it was
loaded--I'll swear to that!"

Cast in another environment, Mr. Riley might have made a good actor.
Even here, in an embarrassing situation calling for lines spoken ad lib.
and without prior rehearsals, he had what the critics term sincerity.
His fine dissembling deceived the revenue man.

"Well, that being the case, where is this here nigger, then?" demanded
the officer.

Riley looked about him.

"I don't see him," he said. "He was right alongside just a moment ago
too. I guess he's gone."

This, in a sense, was the truth, and in still another sense an
exaggeration. Red Hoss was not exactly gone, but he certainly was going.
A man on horseback might have overtaken him, but with the handicap of
Red Hoss' flying start against the pursuing forces no number of men
afoot possibly could hope to do so.

At the end of the second mile, and still going strong, the fugitive
bethought him to part with his red coat. He already had run out from
under his uniform cap, but a red coat with a double row of brass buttons
and brass-topped epaulettes on it flashing next morning across a bland
autumnal landscape would be calculated to attract undesired attention.
So without slackening speed he took it off and cast it behind him into
the darkness. Figuratively speaking, he breathed easier when he crossed
the state line at or about five A.M. As a matter of fact, though, he was
breathing harder. Some hours elapsed before he caught up with his
panting.

Traveling in his shirt sleeves, he reached home too late for the
wedding. Still, considering everything, he hardly would have