“What one?” demanded Van Vorst.
Jimmie pointed dramatically at his prisoner. With an anxious expression the stranger was tenderly fingering the back of his head. He seemed to wish to assure himself that it was still there.
“THAT one!” cried Jimmie. “He's a German spy!”
The patience of Judge Van Vorst fell from him. In his exclamation was indignation, anger, reproach.
“Jimmie!” he cried.
Jimmie thrust into his hand the map. It was his “Exhibit A.” “Look what he's wrote,” commanded the scout. “It's all military words. And these are his glasses. I took 'em off him. They're made in GERMANY! I been stalking him for a week. He's a spy!”
When Jimmie thrust the map before his face, Van Vorst had glanced at it. Then he regarded it more closely. As he raised his eyes they showed that he was puzzled.
But he greeted the prisoner politely.
“I'm extremely sorry you've been annoyed,” he said. “I'm only glad it's no worse. He might have shot you. He's mad over the idea that every stranger he sees—”
The prisoner quickly interrupted.