After gaining considerably on the trio, however, Benny suddenly stopped, for he noticed that one of the three carried a pistol. What could it mean? Could it be?—why, yes, certainly; the man was one of the deputy-sheriffs, and the man beside whom Paul was walking—holding by one arm, in fact, as if he were dragging him along—must be the prisoner.
PAUL AND THE COUNTERFEITER.
Benny was no longer afraid. Paul, he was sure, could protect him against at least six desperate criminals if necessary, even without the help of a deputy-sheriff with a pistol. “Mister,” gasped Benny, as he overtook the officer, who walked a little in the rear of the others, “did—Paul—oh, my!—did Paul—catch the—the prisoner?”
“No, Benny, no,” exclaimed Paul, who had looked backward on hearing Benny’s voice; “I hadn’t anything to do with catching him.”
“He would have done it, though; I’ll bet a hundred to one he would,” said the deputy, “if he had met him before I did. I don’t believe that boy knows what it is to be afraid.”
“Of course he doesn’t,” said Benny, proudly.
“Benny,” said Paul, “come around here by me; don’t be afraid.”
Benny obeyed, though rather fearfully, for the prisoner, with his face rather dirty, and bleeding besides, was not an assuring object to be only a boy’s width away from.
“Benny,” said Paul, “don’t you go to telling the boys that I had any share in catching—in catching this man. You know how such stories get about if there’s the slightest excuse for them.”