“Either that or pretending—I don’t know which, and I don’t care.”
“Oh! I must have been pretending,” answered Yates drowsily; “I can’t have dropped asleep. How long have we been here?”
“About five minutes.”
“All right.” And Yates’ head began to droop again.
This time the constable felt no doubt about it. No man could imitate sleep so well. Several times Yates nearly fell forward, and each time saved himself, with the usual luck of a sleeper or a drunkard. Nevertheless, Stoliker never took his hand from his revolver. Suddenly, with a greater lurch than usual, Yates pitched head first down the bank, carrying the constable with him. The steel band of the handcuff nipped the wrist of Stoliker, who, with an oath and a cry of pain, instinctively grasped the links between with his right hand, to save his wrist. Like a cat, Yates was upon him, showing marvelous agility for a man who had just tumbled in a heap. The next instant he held aloft the revolver, crying triumphantly:
“How’s that, umpire? Out, I expect.”
The constable, with set teeth, still rubbed his wounded wrist, realizing the helplessness of a struggle.
“Now, Stoliker,” said Yates, pointing the pistol at him, “what have you to say before I fire?”
“Nothing,” answered the constable, “except that you will be hanged at Welland, instead of staying a few days in jail.”
Yates laughed. “That’s not bad, Stoliker; and I really believe there’s some grit in you, if you are a man-catcher. Still, you were not in very much danger, as perhaps you knew. Now, if you should want this pistol again, just watch where it alights.” And Yates, taking the weapon by the muzzle, tossed it as far as he could into the field.