Slowly climbing into the surrey, Morey said:
“Here’s fifty cents for you and I want you to take a message to your marshal. If he hasn’t a warrant for my arrest he’d better not follow me. If he does—I’ll break his head.”
“I reckon you all kin sleep in my barn if you ain’t got no hotel.”
“Thanks,” retorted Morey, “I’ve had enough of Centerville. It’s small potatoes.”
Passing the drug and grocery store a moment later, in spite of the already growing crowd of curious persons, he stopped Betty, alighted and entered the place.
“Got any cinnamon drops?” asked Morey.
The proprietor, a little out of breath, finally discovered a jar of the confection several years old.
“Gimme a nickel’s worth!”
Gaping faces were in the door while this transaction was in progress. But as Morey left, a clear path instantly opened before the desperate fugitive.