While the other marshals pulled Tom off his half-conscious victim, the younger contingent came down the street escorting a sauntering blue-coat, who swung his club leisurely and seemed quite master of the situation.
“He kilt him, he kilt him!” called little Sadie McCarren.
Tom, his scraggly hair matted, his face streaming, his chest heaving, and his ragged clothing bespattered, stood hoisting up his suspender, safe in the custody of the other two marshals.
“Take this here young devil around to the station,” said one of the men, “for assault and battery and interferin’ with an officer of the law in the performance of his dooty.”
“Come along, Tom,” said the policeman; “in trouble again, eh?”
“Can’t yer leave him go just this time?” pleaded Mrs. O’Connor. “He ain’t himself at all—yer kin see it.”
“Take him in,” said the rising victim, “for interferin’ with an officer of the law in the performance of dooty.”
“Where’s his folks?” the policeman asked, not unkindly.
It was then the crowd discovered that Bill Slade had disappeared.
“I’ll have to take you along,” said the officer.