“Are you the only one in there?”
“Yes, your honor.”
My grandfather paused and looked at him.
“Pretty hot out there, isn’t it?” asked my grandfather.
The prisoner smiled, a smile exactly like that anyone would have for such a question, but the smile flickered from his face, as he said:
“Yes, your honor.”
My grandfather looked out over the Square and up and down. There was no one anywhere to be seen.
“Well, come on into the office.”
The prisoner picked up his ball, and followed my grandfather into the mayor’s office. My grandfather went to a desk, drew out a drawer, fumbled in it, found a key, and with this he stooped and unlocked the irons on the prisoner’s ankles. But he did not remove the irons—he seated himself in the large chair, and leaned comfortably against its squeaking cane back.
“Now,” my grandfather said, “you go out there in the Square—be careful not to knock the leg irons off as you go,—and you sweep around for a little while, and when the coast is clear you kick them off and light out.”