"Look here, this chap here," indicating Frank, "is in that track meet up at Queen's Club at two o'clock this afternoon. He lost his train by accident and I promised to get him there. Now, let us go through."
"Can't be done. You Americans all try to tear through the country at break-neck speed. You can't do it here, I tell you. Let's see your license."
The Codfish began fumbling in his pockets. "Great Scott! I haven't got the thing anywhere about my jeans, the chauffeur must have it, bad luck to him."
"Another thing to explain to the magistrate. Come along now."
The Codfish reluctantly tacked the car around and followed his guide to the little hamlet where the officer first hailed him from the roadside.
To the disgust of the two American youths the magistrate could not be found, a piece of news imparted to them by the officer after a ten minutes' search around the little court building off the main street.
"Well, now, let us go along," insisted the Codfish. "We've made our call, the magistrate isn't in. We've done our duty, now let's call it off. When you come to America I'll get you a job on the police force of Syracuse. Come on, be a good scout and let's be hitting the gravel. This fellow here with me has to jump in the track games at Queen's Club grounds, and it will be a great disappointment to his friends if he can't be there, to say nothing about his own feelings. Think how it would be if he were your own offspring and was jumping for the English to help lick the Yankees." His cross-fire on the officer might possibly have had some effect if affairs had not taken a new and sudden turn for the worse. As the Codfish was making his arguments, a messenger came up and handed the officer a note. He read it, looked over our friends who were still seated in the car and ran his eye over the car.
"You're a pretty slick young fellow," he said, "but both of you will stay with us for a while. You are in pretty deep."
"How so?" inquired Frank.