The sheriff glared at him. Billy, from the front seat, threw a word of explanation over his shoulder. “It’s not Lake. The watchman.”
“Oh, old Lars Porsena? That’s different. Not a bad sort, Lars. Maybe he’ll get well. Hope so.... And I shot him? Dear me! When did it happen?”
“You’ll find out soon enough!” said the sheriff grimly. “Your preliminary’s right away.”
“Hell, I haven’t had breakfast yet!” Jeff protested. “Feed us first or we won’t be tried at all.”
Within the jail, while the sheriff spoke with his warder, it occurred to Billy that, since Jimmy Phillips was not to be seen, he might as well carry his own friendly message. So he said guardedly:
“Buck up, old man! Keep a stiff upper lip and be careful what you say. This is only your preliminary trial, remember. Lots of things may happen before court sets. The devil looks after his own, you know.”
Jeff had a good ear for voices, however, and Billy’s mustache still kept more than a hint of Mephistopheles. Jeff slowly surveyed Billy’s natty attire, with a lingering and insulting interest for such evidences of prosperity as silken hosiery and a rather fervid scarfpin. At last his eye met Billy’s, and Billy was blushing.
“Does he?” drawled Jeff languidly. “Ah!... You own the car, then?”