At a crossing her horse almost collided with a boy returning home from some late errand. "Oh, Mr. Boy," she said. "Come here, please, I want you to help me."
The boy approached hesitatingly, as though suspicious that some kind of trick were being played on him.
"Can you tell me," she said, in a low voice, "where the jail is? I'll give you a dollar if you do."
"There ain't no jail here, miss," he replied frankly, evidently satisfied that the question was bona fide. "There's a coop, but you wouldn't give a dime to see it. It's just a kind of a shed."
"That's just what I want to find," she continued, "and I'll give you a dollar to show me where it is."
"Easy pickin'," said the boy. "Steer your horse along this way."
He led her through the main part of the town, to where a one-storey building, somewhat apart, stood aloof in the darkness.
"Some coop, ain't it?" said her guide, with boyish irony. "My dad says that's what we git fer votin' against the Gover'ment. The fire truck's in the front end, an' there's a cell with bars behind. Do you want to see that, too?"
"Yes, that's what I want to see, but I can find it myself now, thank you."
"Say, miss, you better be kerful. They've got a murd'rer in there now—Oh, say"—with a sudden change in his voice—"maybe he's somethin' to you? They ain't proved nothin' against him yet."