Clay, for a moment, did not answer. What was there he could say?
CHAPTER XXIII.—THE POLICEMAN MAKES A MISTAKE.
“The boy was with us, in the Rambler, on a platform car on a Canadian Pacific train, going towards Donald, when the robbery took place,” Clay explained, directly, trying hard to keep his temper in the face of the impudence and greed shown by the surgeon.
“You’ll have to prove that!” said the surgeon. “Why are you boys hiding in that motor boat, anyway? Have you been carrying supplies to the men who did the actual work in the robbery? And there was some one shot on a train leaving the pass, on the night of the robbery. Was it a bullet that broke the lad’s leg? You’d better be frank with me.”
“You ought to know whether the injury was caused by a bullet or not,” replied Clay, beginning the story of the trip down the Columbia and ending with the finding of the boy in the shelter he had hastily constructed.
During the recital, however, he said not a word about the man who had so often presented himself to their notice.
“That’s all very well,” the surgeon said, “but it only shows that the boy is mixed up in some secret matter, even if you boys are not in the game with him. Here comes DeYoung, the policeman, now, and I’ll turn the matter over to him, but I want you for a witness to prove that I found the boy and pointed him out to the officer. I want that reward.” “I thought so!” Clay replied, scornfully. “That’s what you are working for! Well, you won’t get it. I’ll attend to that!”
DeYoung, the policeman, now came up and held a short conversation with the surgeon. Clay was not permitted to hear what was being said, but at the termination of the conference the policeman, a member of the mounted force, approached him with a scowl on his face.
“So you’ve been harboring a train robber, have you?” he demanded. “I think I’ll take you all in and hold you for identification. I’ll go to the boat now and get the boy. Come along, doctor, and assist.”
“But the boy mustn’t be moved! cried Clay, in alarm.