The police-station and jail were both in a new building half way up the hill. Into this we were hurried, and the doors were shut.
"Keep 'em all out!" shouted the constable, "keep 'em all out, except members of the possy!"
The "possy" seemed to consist of Eb himself, the men who were guarding us,—five or six of them—and Gregory the Gauger. I never found out just what office he held, but he was clearly the most important man of the lot,—except Eb. The constable leaned his pitchfork against the wall, lighted one or two lamps, sat down behind a desk and put on a pair of spectacles. Then he jerked his head, as if to beckon, toward the banjo-player.
"Name?" said he, picking up a pen.
"My name is Warren Sprague," said the man.
"Occupation?"
"I suppose you would call me a student."
"Don't yer know that yer was disturbin' the peace—"
"Contrary to statoot," put in Gregory the Gauger.
"Shut up, Mose!" said the constable.