“He don't like Harvey, eh?” repeated Mr. Bloomfield. “Well, that's one thing in Harvey's favour anyway. Young man,” he demanded briskly, “kin you support a wife?”
“Yes, sir,” spoke up Harvey; “I can. I've got a good job and I'm making good pay—I'm in the engineering crew that came down from Chicago last month to survey the new short line over to Knoxville.”
“Oh, what are we wasting all this time for?” broke in the desperate Sally Fannie. “Don't you-all know—didn't I tell you that he's right close behind us? And he'll kill Harvey! I know he will—and then I'll die too! Oh, don't be standing there talking! Tell us what to do, somebody—or show us where to hide!”
Mr. Bloomfield's dappled hand waggled his brindled whiskers agitatedly. Mr. Ezell tugged at his hickory neckband; very possibly his thoughts were upon that similar situation of a Northern wooer and a Southern maid as depicted in the lately interrupted film drama entitled At the Cannon's Mouth. Like a tethered pachyderm, Sergeant Bagby swayed his form upon his stationary underpinning.
“Little gal, I most certainly do wisht there was something I could do!” began Mr. Bloomfield, the spirit of romance all aglow within his elderly and doubtless freckled bosom.
“Well, there is, Major!” shouted the sergeant suddenly. “Shore as gun's iron, there's somethin' you kin do! Didn't you tell us boys not half an hour ago you was a jestice of the peace?”
“Yes, I did!”
“Then marry 'em yourself!” It wasn't a request—it was a command, whoopingly, triumphantly given.
“Cumrud,” said Mr. Bloomfield, “I hadn't thought of it—why, so I could!”
“Oh, could you?” Sally Fannie's head came up and her cry had hope in it now. “And would you do it—right quick?”