The bank examiner shook his head. “That’s between you and the bank officials, you cheap little crook.”
“Cheap?” muttered Ferdinand P. Putney. “That man must deal in big money, if he calls a fifty-thousand steal cheap.”
The bank examiner took a roll of bills from his pocket and handed them to the sheriff.
“Here’s the retaining fee I got from Putney last night. If you want to prosecute him, that is evidence.”
“I dunno what I want to do,” said the sheriff blankly.
An apparition was coming in through the back door; a gobby-black sort of a person, painted up like a war-path Indian in reds, greens, blues, purples and black. They watched him come toward them.
“My Gawd!” blurted the sheriff. “It’s Miles Rooney!”
“It is,” wailed the editor. “Look at me! He tied me to my own press and painted me with my own inks. I’ve been like this all night. I just got loose!”
“Who painted you?” whispered Amos.
Miles Rooney turned his ink smeared countenance upon the luckless cashier, pointing a gobby finger at him accusingly.