Traile sat up, alert again. “Two companies of troops from Fort Crook patrolling the city—couldn’t get here last night in time to do any good,” he added bitterly, “because permission had to be granted from Washington first.”
“I recognize the well-loved system.”
“Uh-huh. General Wood arriving to-morrow morning. No definite plan of action to be adopted till he gets here. Listing of names of suspects going on rapidly, however.”
Stacey nodded. “Do you think,” he asked meditatively, “that we’ll have a chance to be in on the arresting part of the game? That’s what I want. Patrolling streets is no use.”
“Sure I do! The colonel from the fort said as much. ’T’s just what they will use us of the Legion for, because we know the town. Here are our drinks. Now when we’ve drunk them what in hell shall we do? I know!” he cried triumphantly. “We’ll drive around to the hotel and bring your things over here, where they ought to have been all the time.”
Stacey smiled. “All right,” he assented. “I don’t care much for the night clerk at that hotel.”
At five minutes to twelve the library all at once overflowed with men. There was pride in Stacey’s look as he greeted them.
“How many, Mills?” he demanded, after a moment.
“Twenty out of twenty-two, sir. Burnham’s sick—as you know better’n any one else, Captain. Monahan, he—he couldn’t come.”
“He couldn’t?” Stacey’s voice was regretful. “That’s too bad.” He paused for a moment, reflecting. Then he drew himself up very straight and gazed at the men, looking keenly from one to another.