Turning his back on the now anxiously watching, though still puzzled, owner of the knife, he held the shaving against the edge of the blade. The superintendent bent over it, and uttered a delighted “Exactly!”
Triumphantly Alex turned toward the prisoner, and held the hand with the knife and shaving before him. “Does this help you to recall what K. & Z. means?” he asked.
“Recall? I don’t—”
“See these two little ridges on the shaving? See these two little nicks in the blade?”
With a hoarse cry the man flung himself backward, and bound as he was, began struggling like a madman. Alex, the superintendent and the Indian were to the oiler’s assistance in a twinkle, however, and a few minutes later saw the renegade in their midst on the way to the boarding-train—and, as it finally proved, to the jail at Exeter.
“I don’t know who to thank most,” said Superintendent Finnan later—“you, Ward, or the oiler, or Little Hawk. Nor what appreciation to suggest higher up.”
“You might make it a blanket and Winchester for the Indian, and a purse for the oiler, for the knocks he got and the bribe he refused,” Alex suggested.
“And yourself?”
“Oh, just let me keep the rascal’s knife, as a memento,” responded Alex modestly.
“Very well; we’ll agree on that—for the present,” said the superintendent.