The manly tone was smothered in a flutter of skirts. A woman ran in from the scrub, yelling: “Jimmy! My Jimmy!” And Jimmy, the gunman, was in his mother’s embrace. A little girl and a smaller boy followed timidly.
Neuburg, they found, had run his boat ashore in the creek under the homestead while the man was back in the woods working. He had walked into the living room and held up the woman and her two youngest children.
“I was in the bedroom,” said Jimmy, the daring. “I saw what was what, so I nipped under the bed.”
Neuburg had stolen the food, packing it in his pockets, found the revolver, and stolen it and cartridges. Then he had ordered them out of the house while he spoke on the telephone. They had run straight to the husband.
“Then you didn’t hear who he called up on the ’phone?” said Gatineau.
“I was under the bed——” began Jimmy.
The father interrupted angrily. “How could she hear? That’s why he drove my wife out.”
“Damn!” muttered Clement. “I’d give a hundred dollars to know who he called up on that ’phone, and what he said.”
“Give ’em to me, then,” said Jimmy.
“What’s that?” gasped everybody.