“But he didn’t mean to do that,” said Mrs. Blackford defensively. “According to your tell, he accidentally kicked the lamp with his foot.”
“Accident or no accident, he did it, and I’m going to have the law on him! I’ll get the constables. He’s took a lot of money, and papers worth more. He may have been in league with those rascals, Denton and Harrison,” murmured the deacon. “But, no. I don’t hardly believe that. He didn’t know them. He just did this out of natural badness. Couldn’t expect much else from the son of a circus performer and a worker of the black art.”
He spoke harshly and angrily.
“Maybe there’s some good circus women, and men too, for that matter, Deacon,” said his wife softly.
“No, not one—they’re all dishonest!” Mr. Blackford declared. “But I’ll get the law after Joe.”
He made ready for the street, though it was a most unusual hour for Deacon Blackford to be out. But the occasion was unusual.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he told his wife.
Out into the night went the deacon, his brain rather in a whirl over the recent events. He walked down the silent streets, his footsteps echoing loudly. He headed for the center of the town where the police station was located, for the two constables reported at this place once or twice during the night.
Hen Sylvester and Tim Donovan had been having adventures of their own in chasing Joe. But they had missed him, and when they saw him fling himself, rather rashly, into the open freight car, which quickly bore him away from them, they turned back much chagrined.
“He got away!” exclaimed Hen.