Without further ceremony, but with a roar that seemed incapable of emerging from one so small, the storekeeper bellowed,
"Joe!"
It was a signal Jeff had heard many times in many voices that expressed it many ways. This was one of the occasions when Tarrant Enterprises, Ltd., had better move fast. The dog fell in beside him as Jeff started to run. He was too late, though.
It was as though the storekeeper possessed some magical quality that could conjure up images at will. Jeff's path was suddenly blocked by a burly two-hundred-and-ten-pound man who wore a gun, a constable's badge, an air of authority, and who had never wasted any time acquiring fat. He loomed over Jeff as a mountain looms over a knoll.
"What's up?" he demanded.
"This peddler," the storekeeper reverted to his customary snappish voice, "is interfering with merchants. He sold Pierre LeLerc a hunting knife."
"Did you?" the constable asked Jeff.
"Yes, but I have a license."
"It's not one that allows you to peddle in business districts," the storekeeper asserted. "Jail him, Joe."
"You comin' peaceable?" the constable asked. "Or should I take you!"