"How are you, Art?" he inquired.
"Tol'able. Havin' some rheumatism, though. Reckon we've all got to expect aches an' pains at our age."
"That's right. Speakin' of handcuffs an' badges, didn't you have a nephew or a cousin 'sociated with a police force somewheres?"
"Bennie, you mean? Oh, yes. He's a policeman out in Chicago."
"How's he gettin' on?"
"Fine! Fine! Just now he's laid up in the hospital, but he 'spects to be out again 'fore long. Got shot through the arm a couple of weeks ago."
"You don't say? Huntin'?" Elisha queried pleasantly.
"Huntin'? Mercy, no! He got winged by a stray bullet while chasin' up a guy that had broke into a store. The shrimp hit him. Luckily he didn't kill him. Ben thought he got off pretty easy."
Elisha's smile faded.
"These fellers that's at large now don't give a hang who they murder," went on the station agent affably. "They're a desperate crew. They'd as soon kill you as not. Bennie landed his man, though, 'spite of bein' hurt. 'Twill, most likely, mean a promotion for him. He'd oughter be promoted, too, for he's done great work on the force. Been shot three or four times while on duty. 'Tain't a callin' I myself would choose, but he seems to get a big kick out of it."