“Okay with me, kid. I’m fair sick of seein’ guys put on the spot fer nuthin’ at all. Just remember that when yer told the porch, don’t go out in the road, or anywheres else, when they’s Tom’s orders.”
“Who’s talkin’ about me,” gruffed Tom from the doorway. “Oh, it’s you, Zeppi! Well, what’s the trouble now?”
With a sleight-of-hand motion, he jerked an automatic revolver from a holster under his left armpit and covered the man.
“Okay, Tom.” Zeppi dropped his rifle and raised his hands above his head. “I was just tellin’ the kid here that he should shake a leg when it come to takin’ your orders, or—”
“Oh, that was it, eh?” Tom cut him short and put away the gun. “Sorry, Zeppi—I come near drillin’ you. I’m always a bit rough after a sleep—must watch myself. We’re losing too many men. Get into line, you bozos,” he commanded, “follow me by twos—march!”
Bill fell in beside Zeppi, who winked at him. The party clattered down the steps and started along the white road at a smart pace. He felt much as a man might who is being led to execution. His only hope was that Tony would remain inside the jail and that the detail would not be forced to enter.
When Tom turned into the place, motioning the others to follow him, Bill’s usually optimistic spirits fell. Tony was found pouring over a Police Gazette, his chair tilted back against the rough plaster wall.
“Hello, Tom,” he greeted, raising his eyes from the pages. Then his chair came down with a crash and he sprang to his feet.
“What’s that feller doin’ wid you, Tom?” he cried. “What’s he done wid Diego?”
“What feller? What you shoutin’ about, Tony?” growled the barracks boss.