Latisan tipped his head to indicate the waiting policeman. “I brought him along. I asked him to come up from the street. He doesn’t know what for.”
“Nor I, either!” blurted Mern.
“I thought you might want me arrested on sight, and I remember what I did to your telephones, and I figured I’d save you the trouble of sending out.”
There was no mistaking the drive master’s new mood. He was polite; he was contrite. The picturesque touch furnished by supplying a policeman suggested the Vose-Mern “anticipatory system” and appealed to the chief’s grim sense of humor. Also, Mern was moved by that consciousness which warms real men, when it’s a mutual acknowledgment, “He’s a good sport.”
Mern waved his hand to the policeman, putting into that gesture a meaning which the officer understood; the officer started for the outer door.
“Just a second!” called Latisan. He pulled out a roll of money and gave the policeman a bill. “You can use that to pay your fare down in the elevator.”
Latisan held the roll in sight until he and Mern were alone. “While the cash is out, I may as well inquire what the bill is.”
“For what?”
“For this.” The woodsman swung the hand which held the money, making a wide sweep to take in all the wreck.
“No bill, Latisan! You can’t pay a cent. I think we’ll call it natural wear and tear in the course of business.”