“Stop! stop!” he exclaimed, in a voice reduced to a mere wheeze—and Grayson “eased off” to hear him.
“Won't anything else satisfy you but a written certificate?” he asked—speaking with difficulty, and making motions as if endeavoring to swallow something too large to pass the gate of his throat.
“Nothing but that,” answered Grayson, decidedly; “and if you don't give it to me, when your regulator friends arrive, instead of me, they will find you, swinging from this beam by the neck!” And, seeing his victim hesitate, he again tugged at the rope, until the same signs were exhibited as before—only a little more apparently.
“Ho—hold, Grayson!” begged the frightened and strangling lieutenant; and, as his executioner again relaxed a little, he continued: “Just let me up, and I'll do anything you want.”
“That is to say,” laughed Grayson, “you would rather take the chances of a fight, than be hung up like a sheep-stealing dog! Let you up, indeed!” And once more he dragged the rope down more vigorously than ever.
“I—didn't—mean that—indeed!” gulped the unhappy official, this time almost strangled in earnest.
“What did you mean then?” sternly demanded Grayson, relaxing a little once again.
“I will write the certificate,” moaned the unfortunate lieutenant, “if you will let one arm loose, and won't tell anybody until the ten days are out—”
“Why do you wish it kept secret!”
“If I give such a certificate as you demand,” mournfully answered the disconsolate officer, “I shall have to leave the country—and I want time to get away.”