“I read the account in the evening paper. I had heard of Harkless, of Carlow, before; but it never occurred to me that it was my friend—I had heard he was abroad—until I got this telegram from a relative of mine who happened to be down there.”
“Well,” said the superintendent, “your friend made a mighty good fight before he gave up. The Teller, that's the man we've got out here, he's so hacked up and shot and battered his mother wouldn't know him, if she wanted to; at least, that's what Gay, here, says. We haven't seen him, because the doctors have been at him ever since he was found, and they expect to do some more tonight, when we've had our interview with him, if he lives long enough. One of my sergeants found him in, the freight-yards about four-o'clock and sent him here in the ambulance; knew it was Teller, because he was stowed away in one of the empty cars that came from Plattville last night, and Slattery—that's his running mate, the one we caught with the coat and hat—gave in that they beat their way on that freight. I guess Slattery let this one do most of the fighting; he ain't scratched; but Mr. Harkless certainly made it hot for the Teller.”
“My relative believes that Mr. Harkless is still alive,” said Meredith.
Mr. Barrett permitted himself an indulgent smile. He had the air of having long ago discovered everything which anybody might wish to know, and of knowing a great deal which he held in reserve because it was necessary to suppress many facts for a purpose far beyond his auditor's comprehension, though a very simple matter to himself.
“Well, hardly, I expect,” he replied, easily. “No; he's hardly alive.”
“Oh, don't say that,” said Meredith.
“I'm afraid Mr. Barrett has to say it,” broke in Warren Smith. “We're up here to see this fellow before he dies, to try and get him to tell what disposal they made of the——”
“Ah!” Meredith shivered. “I believe I'd rather he said the other than to hear you say that.”
Mr. Horner felt the need of defending a fellow-townsman, and came to the rescue, flushing painfully. “It's mighty bad, I know,” said the sheriff of Carlow, the shadows of his honest, rough face falling in a solemn pattern; “I reckon we hate to say it as much as you hate to hear it; and Warren really didn't get the word out. It's stuck in our throats all day; and I don't recollect as I heard a single man say it before I left our city this morning. Our folks thought a great deal of him, Mr. Meredith; I don't believe there's any thinks more. But it's come to that now; you can't hardly see no chance left. We be'n sweating this other man, Slattery, but we can't break him down. Jest tells us to go to”—the sheriff paused, evidently deterred by the thought that swear-words were unbefitting a hospital—“to the other place, and shets his jaw up tight. The one up here is called the Teller, as Mr. Barrett says; his name's Jerry the Teller. Well, we told Slattery that Jerry had died and left a confession; tried to make him think there wasn't no hope fer him, and he might as well up and tell his share; might git off easier; warned him to look out for a mob if he didn't, maybe, and so on, but it never bothered him at all. He's nervy, all right. Told us to go—that is, he said it again—and swore the Teller was on his way to Chicago, swore he seen him git on the train. Wouldn't say another word tell he got a lawyer. So, 'soon as it was any use, we come up here—they reckon he'll come to before he dies. We'll be glad to have you go in with us,” Horner said kindly. “I reckon it's all the same to Mr. Barrett.”
“He will die, will he, Gay?” Meredith asked, turning to the surgeon.