“That feller out there is our district attorney,” he said. “Wouldn’t think it, would you? Young and all that. Fact, he’s the youngest district attorney in our state. He plays short field on our baseball team—The Hunterville Tigers.”
“So he’s district attorney?” inquired Hunky.
“Sure is, and smart as they make ’em.”
Hunky wandered out to the cars in front. I followed. He approached the young official, who was putting up the hood of his car in readiness for the oil.
“Sir,” said Hunky to him. “Are you District Attorney for this county?”
“Yes, sir,” answered the man, straightening up and gazing back at Hunky with a pair of very frank and fearless gray eyes.
“In that case I want to tell you something,” said Hunky. “I just broke into an old house about three miles down this road. It looked to be a deserted house, all covered with woodbine and a lot of golden glow in the front of it.”
“That’s the Old Collishaw House. It is deserted. No one has lived there for fifteen years.”
“I thought so, too—consequently when I ventured through a door and looked smack into the barrel of an unprepossessing revolver you can realize I was surprised some.”
The young District Attorney pushed his hat up from his forehead. There seemed nothing at all that could be hidden from his eyes, and now he bent their gaze on Hunky.