“Why, captain, I’m––” the real Gladwin started again.
“You’ve done well here, Phelan,” the captain complimented him, ignoring the young millionaire.
“Thank ye, sorr,” blushed Phelan.
“I should say he has done well.” The thief came forward, with an approving nod toward the now ecstatic Officer 666.
“If it hadn’t been for him,” pursued the thief, “these thieves would have carried off my pictures. I would suggest, captain, that he be properly rewarded.”
“Thank ye, sorr.” Phelan’s voice shook with gratitude.
“I’ll see that he gets full credit in my report,” said Captain Stone stiffly. “Now, Phelan, you go to the station for the patrol wagon. I sent it back, as one of the horses threw a shoe and got a bad fall. Tell the driver to get another horse at Murphy’s stable and hurry back.”
“Yes sorr.”
Phelan went out, walking on air and humming to himself, “Sergt. Michael Phelan, no less,” utterly forgetful of the sorry plight he was in not a half hour before.
Travers Gladwin was almost beside himself with chagrin. Again he made an impassioned plea to be heard.