Lifting the flash, he examined me from head to foot. Reaching forward, he tapped the box of lunch under my arm with his billy.
“What have you got in that box?” he inquired.
“Grub,” I replied.
“So ho! A box of grub and a roll of blankets. You look like a woman hobo.”
I admitted the charge and declared my intention of taking the west-bound freight. “And I suppose you are a detective hired to prevent that very thing,” I concluded.
“You’ve struck it,” he answered. “That’s....”
He leaned forward and stiffened like a pointer dog in the presence of a flock of quail. With wonderful dexterity he slipped the flash in his pocket and drew a revolver, then moved forward with the sinuous grace of a panther and as silently as a shadow. I heard the footsteps of several men approaching across the yard.
“Halt!” barked the detective. “Throw up your hands. Keep ’em high now, and face the east. Now, beat it.”
I heard the sound of running feet, punctuated by dull thuds as the detective belaboured the heads and shoulders of the fleeing men with his billy.
“Fo Gawd’s sake, don’t, Boss. Oh, Gawd. You’re killin’ me.” It was the pleading voice of a negro, who seemed to be bearing the brunt of the clubbing.