“That ’u’d settle that.”
“I suppose you’d lead them down yourself?”
“You bet.”
“I always thought you were a fool, Jenney. Why not stand by the town jump and holler that you’re a whisky runner?... And you planning to be sheriff....” Abner waggled his head. “This is the kind of brains I have to trust to,” he said, sourly.
“Hain’t nobody else to do it,” said Jenney, defensively.
“Seems like Peewee Bangs might be kind of irritated by a newspaper piece like this—and you can trust Peewee to keep in the background, too.”
Jenney slapped his leg, “And he’s got a bunch of plug-uglies handy, too.”
Abner motioned to the door. “Get out,” he said, “and don’t come near me again till I send for you. I don’t want the smell of you on my clothes when I walk down the street.”
Deputy Jenney walked down the road and presently turned upon Main Street, which would carry him past the Free Press office. He paused at sight of a knot of people gathered before its window, and joined them. Carmel had carried enterprise—or indiscretion—to its ultimate. On a table in the window stood a quart bottle of Scotch whisky. Behind it stood a placard announcing it to be the evidence in the case—a veritable bottle from the smuggler’s cache in the woods. Jenney ground his teeth, and, seeing Evan Bartholomew Pell seated at his work, saw red for an instant. He was an impulsive man, and temper often carried him somewhat beyond the boundaries where good judgment reigned. It is not easy to prophesy what he would have done had not a hand rested on his arm.
“Whoo!... Easy there! So-ooo!” whispered a voice, and, looking down, he saw the sharp, wolf-like features of the hunchback, Peewee Bangs.