“’Tain’t that kind of smashin’. He says fer you to git a dozen fellers and fill ’em full, and then turn ’em loose on that printin’ shop with sledge hammers. Kind of tinker with it, like. Git the idee?”
“So-oo!... Me, eh? I can’t see me leadin’ no sich percession down Main Street. Hain’t achin’ to git the public eye focused on me any. Talk enough goin’ around now.”
“Fix it anyhow you like—only fix it.”
“What if the sheriff’s office is called to put down the disturbance?”
“It wouldn’t git much result, seems as though,” said the Deputy, humorously.
Peewee Bangs walked leisurely back to reconnoiter the Free Press office, and, having satisfied himself, clambered into his rickety car and drove out of town in the general direction of the Lakeside Hotel.
Carmel Lee was seated at her desk, endeavoring to appear oblivious to the excitement outside and to the air of hostility within. Everybody disapproved. Even Simmy, the printer’s devil, went about with a look of apprehension, and stopped now and then to peer at her reproachfully. Tubal blustered and muttered. He had appeared that morning with an automatic shotgun under his arm, which he stood against the case from which he was sticking type.
“Going hunting?” Carmel asked, with pretended innocence.
“Self-pertection,” said Tubal, “is the fust six laws of nature, and the bulk of all the rest of ’em.”
“You’re trying to frighten me,” Carmel said, “and you can’t do it. I won’t be frightened.”