“And I am a prospective bondsman,” I stated, with sudden inspiration. “So let me in also.”
We entered, and the policeman led his prisoner to the sergeant at the desk. The latter asked the charge, and was told, “Disturbing the peace and blocking traffic.”
“Now, sergeant,” said I, “this is preposterous. All this prisoner did was to try to stop a mob from destroying property.”
“You can tell all that to the magistrate in the morning,” said the sergeant.
“What is the bail?” I demanded.
“You are prepared to put up bail?”
I answered that I was; and then for the first time Carpenter spoke. “You mean you wish to pay money to secure my release? Let there be no money paid for me.”
“Let me explain, Mr. Carpenter,” I pleaded. “You will accomplish nothing by spending the night in a police cell. You will have no opportunity to talk with the prisoners. They will keep you by yourself.”
He answered, “My Father will be with me.” And gazing into the face of the sergeant, he demanded, “Do you think you can build a cell to which my Father cannot come?”
The officer was an old hand, with a fringe of grey hair around his bald head, and no doubt he had been asked many queer questions in his day. His response was to inquire the prisoner's name; and when the prisoner kept haughty silence, he wrote down “John Doe Carpenter,” and proceeded: “Where do you live?”