“He did, did he? Then he should be hung.”
“Pat—Patrick O’Hara’s sho—shot too,” Cordie was very near to tears. “If it hadn’t been for him,” she nodded to the figure in gray, “we—we wouldn’t have got him, though Dick and I would have done our—our best, for he—he shot our good good friend Pat O’Hara.” At this, Cordie’s long pent up tears came flooding forth as she hid her face on good old Tim’s broad breast.
“That’s all right,” he soothed, patting her on the shoulders. “It’s not as bad as you think. Look! There’s old Dick getting to his feet now.”
It was true. The man in gray had walked over to where Dick lay, had coaxed the horse to get up, and was now leading him limping to the curb.
“It’s only a flesh wound in the leg,” he explained. “Give him a week or ten days and he’ll be on the beat again. Dick, old boy,” he said huskily, “and you too, dear little Cordie, I want to thank you for what you’ve done for me. I—I’ve had my revenge, if a man has a right to revenge. And it might be they’ll find the fox skins among his plunder.”
The eyes of the man in gray, just now brimming with honest tears, were turned toward Cordie. It was James, the seaman and bundle carrier!
For a moment he gripped the girl’s hand, then turning to Tim, said:
“You’ll look after her? See that she gets safely back to her friends?”
“Oh sure! Sure!”
“Then I’ll be getting over to the police station. They’ll be wanting someone to prefer charges.”