“My name’s Paisley, if you please,” returned the prisoner, stolidly, “and I can take care of my own mother. If she’s lent me money I have paid it back. This is only for bail, to deposit—”
“There is the chance,” interrupted Wickliff, “of your skipping. Now, I tell you, I like the looks of your mother, and I don’t mean she shall run any risks. So, if you do get money from her, I shall personally look out you don’t forfeit your bail. Besides, court is in session now, so the chances are you wouldn’t more than get the money before it would be your turn. See?”
“Anyhow I’ve got to have a lawyer.”
“Can’t see why, young feller. I’ll give you a straight tip. There ain’t enough law in Iowa to get you out of this scrape. We’ve got the cinch on you, and there ain’t any possible squirming out.”
“So you say;” the sneer was a little forced; “I’ve heard of your game before. Nice, kind officers, ready to advise a man and pump him dry, and witness against him afterwards. I ain’t that kind of a sucker, Mr. Sheriff.”
“Nor I ain’t that kind of an officer, Mr. Smith. You’d ought to know about my reputation by this time.”
“They say you’re square,” the prisoner admitted; “but you ain’t so stuck on me as to care a damn whether I go over the road; expect you’d want to send me for the trouble I’ve given you,” and he grinned. “Well, what are you after?”
“Helping your mother, young feller. I had a mother myself.”
“It ain’t uncommon.”
“Maybe a mother like mine—and yours—is, though.”