“I’m holding him by the two arms,” said Shawn, “he can’t stir anything but his head, and I’ve got my chest on that.”
The sergeant struck the match, shading it for a moment with his hand, then he turned it on their new prisoner.
They saw a little man dressed in tight green clothes; he had a broad pale face with staring eyes, and there was a thin fringe of grey whisker under his chin—then the match went out.
“It’s a Leprecaun,” said the sergeant.
The men were silent for a full couple of minutes—at last Shawn spoke.
“Do you tell me so?” said he in a musing voice; “that’s a queer miracle altogether.”
“I do,” said the sergeant. “Doesn’t it stand to reason that it can’t be anything else? You saw it yourself.”
Shawn plumped down on his knees before his captive.
