“I’ll do that,” said Shawn, and he hauled some reluctant object towards his superior.
The sergeant put out his hand and touched a head.
“It’s only a boy’s size to be sure,” said he, then he slid his hand down the face and withdrew it quickly.
“There are whiskers on it,” said he soberly. “What the devil can it be? I never met whiskers so near the ground before. Maybe they are false ones, and it’s just the boy yonder trying to disguise himself.” He put out his hand again with an effort, felt his way to the chin, and tugged.
Instantly there came a yell, so loud, so sudden, that every man of them jumped in a panic.
“They are real whiskers,” said the sergeant with a sigh. “I wish I knew what it is. His voice is big enough for two men, and that’s a fact. Have you got another match on you?”
“I have two more in my waistcoat pocket,” said one of the men.
“Give me one of them,” said the sergeant; “I’ll strike it myself.”
He groped about until he found the hand with the match.
“Be sure and hold him tight, Shawn, the way we can have a good look at him, for this is like to be a queer miracle of a thing.”