"Officer of State Police," answered Smith. "I have a man under arrest and want to put him in the lock-up. Will you get me the keys?"
"Sure. I'll come right down and go along with you myself. Just give me a jiffy to get on my trousers and boots," cried the Constable, clearly glad of a share in the adventure.
In a moment the borough official was at the Trooper's side, talking eagerly as they moved toward the place where the party waited.
"So, he's a highwayman, is he? Good! and a burglar, too, and a cattle-thief! Good work! And you've got him right up the street, ready to jail! Well, I'll be switched. Now, what might his name be? Israel Drake? Not Israel Drake! Oh, my God!"
The Constable had stopped in his tracks like a man struck paralytic.
"No, stranger," he quavered. "I reckon I—I—I won't go no further with you just now. Here, I'll give you the keys. You can use 'em yourself: These here's for the doors. This bunch is for the cells. Good-night to you. I'll be getting back home!"
By the first train next morning the Troopers, conveying their prisoner, left the village for the County Town. As they deposited Drake in the safe-keeping of the County Jail and were about to depart, he seemed burdened with an impulse to speak, yet said nothing. Then, as the three officers were leaving the room, he leaned over and touched Merryfield on the shoulder.
"Shake!" he growled, offering his unwounded hand.
Merryfield "shook" cheerfully, with his own remaining sound member.
"I'm plumb sorry to see ye go, and that's a fact," growled the outlaw. "Because—well, because you're the only man that ever tried to arrest me."