“You ready there?” called the constable.
“Good-night,” said Winthrop.
Under the eyes of the grinning yokels, they shook hands.
“Good-night,” said the girl.
“Where’s your young man?” demanded the chief of police.
“My what?” inquired Winthrop.
“The young fellow that was with you when we held you up that first time.”
The constable, or the chief of police as he called himself, on the principle that if there were only one policeman he must necessarily be the chief, glanced hastily over the heads of the crowd.
“Any of you holding that shoffer?” he called.
No one was holding the chauffeur.