“Why, Mr. Cooley,” whispered a voice at his elbow, “it was way arter dark.”
“Sh!” he stuttered, shuffling his feet that the men might not hear anything else she said.
“What is your name and occupation?” resumed the sheriff, calmly.
“Ephriam Cooley, and I teach school ten miles north of Georgetown.”
His speech was not that of a common negro, but of a lettered man, and seemed strangely at variance with his bearded, scowling face.
“Have you a knife? I would like to borrow it, if you’ve got one?”
“No, sir, I left my knife in my other pants’ pocket.”
“But you’ve got a razor, haven’t you? Let me have it,” said the sheriff. “One of our men broke his girth and unfortunately we have no way of fixing it, as there is not a knife in the crowd.”
There was a slight agitation in the negro’s manner as he turned to find the razor, or rather to pretend to search for it. The sheriff pushed in after him.
“Maybe I can help you find it?” he said, as he picked up a coat from under one corner of the rumpled bed. A razor dropped to the floor. The negro made a move toward it, but the sheriff’s foot held it fast.