As he spoke, several heavy-footed men filed into the room. They all bore the unmistakable stamp of the country constable.
Ned's tongue almost stuck to the roof of his mouth, it grew so dry. Every nerve in his body quivered. Was it possible that all this was real? It seemed more like an ugly nightmare.
"Look here," he exclaimed, in a voice he tried to render calm and collected, "this has gone far enough. Everything can be explained. But you mustn't lock me up now. Let me go back to the fleet. There is a conspiracy on foot to destroy some of the ships. I must warn——"
A rough laugh interrupted him.
"What kind er moonshine be that, young chap?" grinned the constable. "Yer don't go ter thinkin' we puts any stock in such talk as thet, do yer? If yer do, yer mus' think we're 'dunderheads' jes 'cos this is Dundertown. Na-ow, come on! Air you comin' quiet, or air yer comin' rough?"
Ned turned to the quartermaster, who stood pompously puffed up, surveying the civil authorities with a patronizing air.
"Remember, officer," he said, "humph! the prisoner is not a civil prisoner. He is only placed in your temporary care by me as a representative of the United States government."
"Ve-ree well," rejoined the constable; "we'll take care of him, by heck! Jes' bin pinin' ter put some 'un in ther new jail. Thet reminds me, we've got another prisoner ter pick up daown ter ther circus grounds."
"His name isn't Taylor, this chap's companion, humph?" demanded the quartermaster.