“Poor feller!” said Blicker, with affected pity, “you was so drunk you can’t remember that you made a slash at Jones with my knife that was on the counter.”
“O, Blicker, Blicker!” exclaimed Comston, “how can you stand there and tell such an infamous lie? You know you gave me two drinks—one free, and the other to drag Jones out.”
“Whether he did or not,” interposed the constable, “you’re in for it now. I am compelled to take you to jail. When your trial comes off, you can have a chance to prove your innocence.”
“I’m not going to jail!” cried Comston wildly. “I’ve done nothing to go there for. What do you want to put an innocent man in prison for? I should like to know.”
“Get up, and come along,” cried the constable sternly, “or I’ll hand-cuff you.”
“O, my God!” exclaimed Comston, now completely sobered. “Turn me loose, Dick Bonds. You know I didn’t do it.”
“Come along, I say!” cried the constable.
“Please let me speak to Blicker,” entreated the terror-stricken man, turning to the saloon-keeper. “O, Blicker, you’re a gentleman. Wow don’t let me go to jail.”
“How can I prevent it?” asked Blicker.