“Your authority carries no weight with me,” said Burton. “It may be as fictitious as the courtesy of the police.”
“Well then, look at that,” said Elton, leaning forward and exposing a police button.
“That proves nothing. You may have stolen it. Produce your papers.”
Burton’s anger had risen to a pitch where, although he appeared outwardly calm, every fibre of his being was charged with wild, rioting emotion. The disgrace of suspicion was keen enough, but the crude, brutal manner of the arrest, and Elton’s apparent delight in the humiliation he was inflicting, were unbearable. He rightly guessed that the officer had no warrant, but was trying to carry matters with a high hand to impress his personal importance on the simple country folk about him, and he determined that the glory should not be all on one side.
“You say I stole it!” cried Elton, white with rage. “I’ll put you in irons for this.”
Burton stood behind the grocery counter, a short counter, about ten feet long. The store was now filled with excited onlookers, who, however, kept a little distance from the storm centre.
“Come out from behind that counter!” thundered Elton.
“Come in and bring me out,” challenged Burton. “The people want to see you do it.”
This direct appeal to Elton’s weakness for self-aggrandisement decided the officer.
“Hagan, go in at that end,” he commanded, with the air of a general mustering his legions. “We’ll show this young blackleg where he gets off.”