“Well, old gentleman,” he continued. “What about this outfit? Where’d yu’ get ’em?”
Pale and exhausted, the aged man strove to recover from his distress. His agitation was pitiable, and the Sergeant gave him time and waited quietly.
Speech suddenly broke from him, in a torrent of expostulation.
“I didn’t steal ’em!” he shrilled, in a thin, high, cracked falsetto. “I didn’t!—I bought ’em honest ... an’ I’ve got th’ bill o’ sale to prove it. I’m an honest man ... always have bin ... an’—an’ this feller here’s abused me an’ beat me up ... an’ he’s twenty years younger’n me, if he’s a day. O-oh, o-oh, oh, my God!...” And the tears ran down his lined old face into his gray beard.
“Yu’ did steal ’em, you old liar—yu’ know yu’ did!” Pryce commenced to yell back at him.
“Aw, quit yore squallin’, Pryce,” snarled the policeman angrily, “or I’ll damned soon give yu’ somethin’ to squall about. This ain’t a dog fight. I’m runnin’ this inquiry, an’ I’ll have it conducted in a proper manner. Just yu’ keep yore traps closed—both of yu’—an’ only open ’em to answer my questions. D’yu’ hear?”
This roughly administered tonic had its effect, and the agitators grew perceptibly quieter. The Sergeant watched them narrowly.
“Now, let’s start in again,” he said. “Yu’, Pryce! Yore team, wagon an’ harness disappeared on th’—th’—wait a bit, I’ve got it in my notebook—‘on th’ sixth o’ June. Team o’ dark bays, branded E four on th’ right shoulder. One with white star on forehead an’ two white hind-fetlocks, an’ t’other, white strip on forehead, an’ a small kidney-sore on left side o’ back. Heavy, double-stitched harness, with brass-mounted hames. Wagon—Studebaker—almost new.’”
He leisurely examined the brands on the team and nodded as if satisfied.
“That’s yore team all right,” he said. “Now, let’s have a look at th’ wagon. ‘Studebakers’ is common enough. Is there any marks, or somethin’ yu’ can positively swear to, about it—harness, th’ same?”