Amos returned to the jail. He found the street clear, but little knots of men were gathering and then dispersing in the street facing the jail. Amos thought that he saw Foley’s face in the crowd, but it vanished as he tried to distinguish it. “No doubt he’s egging them on,” muttered Amos. He was rather taken aback when Raker (to whom he offered his suspicions) assured him, on ear evidence, that Foley was preaching peace and obedience to the law. “He’s an Irishman, too,” muttered Amos; “that’s awful queer.” He spent a long time in a grim reverie, out of which he roused himself to despatch a boy for the evening papers. “And you mark that advertisement, and take half a dozen copies to Foley”—thus ran his directions—“tell him I sent them; and if he knows anybody would like to read that ‘ad,’ to send a paper to them. Understand?”
“Maybe it’s a prowl after a will-o’-wisp,” Amos sighed, after the boy was gone, “but it’s worth a try. Now for our young man!”
Allerton was sitting in his cell, in an attitude of dejection that would have been a grateful sight to the crowd outside. He was a slim-waisted, broad-shouldered, gentle-mannered young fellow, whose dark eyes were very bright, and whose dark hair was curly, and longer than hair is usually worn by Northerners not studying football at the universities. He had a mildly Roman profile and a frank smile. His clothes seemed almost shabby to Amos, who never grudged a dollar of his tailor’s bills; but the little Southern village whence he came was used to admire that glossy linen and that short-skirted black frock-coat.
At Amos’s greeting he ran forward excitedly.
“Are they coming?” he cried. “Say, sheriff, you’ll give me back my pistol if they come; you’ll give me a show for my life?”
Amos shrugged his shoulders impatiently. “Your life’s all right,” said he; “it’s how to keep from hurting the other fellows I’m after. The fire department will turn out and sozzle ’em well, and if that won’t do they will have to face the soldiers; but I hope to the Lord your aunt won’t let it come to that.”
“Do you think my aunt is living?”
“I don’t see how she could be burned up so completely. But see here, Mr. Allerton, wasn’t there no trap-door in the room?”
“No, sir; there was no carpet on the floor; she hadn’t a carpet in the house. Besides, how could she, sick as she was, get down through a trap-door and shut it after her? And you could see the boards, and there was no opening in them.”
“So Mrs. O’Shea says, too,” mused the sheriff; “but let’s go back. Had your aunt any motive for trying to escape you?”