“Ha, ha! Of course ye don’t. But ask anybody nigh-abouts who knows Jerry Dinglar an’ they’d tell ye he’s the greatest practical joker in town. I simply can’t help it.”
“You—you—surely don’t mean that this is all a lark, do you?” exclaimed Tom, hopefully.
One square look into Mr. Dinglar’s eyes was enough to reveal the truth.
“Great Scott!”
Tom breathed a sigh of relief. He felt so joyous that his anger melted entirely away. Willingly he seized and shook the lean brown hand which was thrust toward him, suppressing with difficulty a desire to indulge in boisterous mirth.
“Only a joke!” he exclaimed. “Ha, ha!—But”—his face suddenly became grave again—“aren’t you really a constable?”
“I’m the greatest stickler for facts you ever heard of,” confided Mr. Dinglar. “Sure I am a constable. Now let me tell you somethin’—let it soak in good, too: back there ain’t in my jurisdiction; Piker attends to that most o’ the time, an’ I’m generally off to the north o’ here. But I wanted to git a lift inter town—understan’? An’ when I see a young chap comin’ along swift as an Injun arrow I makes up my mind to hev it. See the p’int?”
Tom admitted that he caught the idea.
“But why in thunder didn’t you just ask me?” he inquired.
Jerry Dinglar shook his head.