“I didn’t want to shoot ’im,” replied the rescuer. “I wouldn’t like to go through life without the consciousness of having killed a man.”
“Well, he ought to have a bullet in his leg anyhow,” declared Artie. “I don’t believe in letting such fellows get off scot free.”
“I’m satisfied as it is,” volunteered Guy, who was not of a vindictive nature. “He got a good scare an’ no money. But we haven’t thanked this gentleman for what he did.”
“Give me a swift kick, will you, Guy?” exclaimed Artie in disgust. “I’m ashamed o’ myself. You’ll go back to America convinced that we English are just as slow as they say we are.”
“No danger of that,” assured Guy “You’ve shown me a pretty lively time tonight. Is this what you meant by seeing London in a fog?”
“Not exactly, though I expected something to happen to show you what a fog means to us.”
“That’s when most of our hold-ups occur—in a fog,” explained the rescuer. “A highwayman is safer in one of our fogs than he would be in your Rocky Mountains. But I must be moving along.”
“We wish to thank you for rescuing us Mister—! May we ask your name?”
“Smithers—J. C. Smithers. I’m living at the Morley hotel.”
“Why, that’s where we’re stopping—I mean I am. My friend here works there.”