"I said I had reason to believe that the two hands I hired yesterday must be the very rascals you are looking for right now," repeated Mr. Brady.
"Er—describe them, please?" said the man in uniform, as he drew out a bulky notebook, and opened it at a certain place.
"One was very short, a squatty sort of fellow, but enormously strong. When I saw what he could lift I thought I'd run across a good hand, though I own that I didn't just like his face; but at this time of year farmers can't be choosers, 'cause help is mighty scarce."
"Did he have a scar on his right cheek?" asked the pompous chief of police, as he kept his eyes on his notebook.
"That's just what he did have; told me he had been caught once by a reaper, and just escaped with his life!" answered Mr. Brady promptly.
"So. And did you happen to notice his left hand, was the upper joint of his little finger missing?" the officer continued, in a sing-song tone.
"It certainly was," replied the farmer, nodding; "he explained that in the same way; and I agreed with him that he was lucky to lose only so small a piece, when he had the mower catch him, as the horses ran away."
"Settled then; that was Shorty McCabe beyond all doubt," remarked the official. "Now how about his companion? Was he tall?"
"Half again as big a man as the other," replied Mr. Brady.
"Squint with one of his eyes; and talk as if he had his mouth filled with hot mush?" continued Chief Benchley.