d no warrant."

"This gun says you need one," came the calm rejoinder. "You've got one
yourself, and you can whistle up plenty of other harness bulls--all
armed, but if you do I'll get you first. My name is Boone Wellver. Now,
are you going to get that warrant or not?"

For an instant the policeman hesitated; then he conceded as though he
had never contested the point.

"I ain't got no objection in the world to swearing out a warrant for
you--since you've told me what your name is. But don't try to make no
get-away till I come back."

"I'll be right here--when you come back."

The patrolman turned and walked away, and Boone wheeled briskly to the
car.

"Now you gentlemen get out of this--and do a little warrant-swearing
yourselves. Be over at Central Station in about forty-five minutes fixed
to give bond for me. I reckon I'll be needing it."

Ten minutes later, with a spectacular clanging of gongs, a police patrol
clattered up, scattering the crowd and disgorging a wagonload of
officers headed by a lieutenant with a drawn pistol.

They handled Boone with unnecessary roughness as they nipped the
handcuffs on his wrists and bundled him into the wagon, but he had
expected that. It was their cheap revenge, and he gave them no
satisfaction of complaint.

In the cage at Central Station into which they thrust him, with more
violence, his companions were a drunken negro and one or two other
"election offenders" like himself.

It was through the grating that he looked out a half hour later, to see
Morgan Wallifarro standing outside.

"Father and the General are arranging bond," announced the visitor. "I
wanted a word with you alone."

Boone's only response was an acquiescent nod.

"I lost my head last night, Wellver," Morgan went on shamefacedly. "I
was a damned fool, of course, to imagine that I could bully you, and a
cad as well. I lied when I intimated that you were--not anybody's equal.
If I were you, I'd refuse to accept an apology, but at all events I've
got to offer it--abjectly and humbly."

There was no place in the close-netted grating of that door through
which a hand could be thrust, and Boone grinned boyishly as he said, "I
accept your advice and refuse to shake hands with you--Wallifarro--until
the door's opened."

Boone's pistol was held, of course, as evidence, but without it he went
back to the registration booth, and as he took his seat the man of the
debauched face looked up, with surprised