“Don't talk that way, Pole,” said Alan. “You've broken the law and they had to punish you for it. If they hadn't they would have made themselves ridiculous. Why didn't you send me word you were in trouble, Pole?”
The fellow hung his head, and then he blurted out:
“Beca'se I knowed you would make a fool o' yorese'f an' try to pay me out. Damn it, Alan Bishop, this ain't no business o' yore'n!”
“I 'll make it my business,” said Alan. “How much is your fine? You ought to have sent me word.”
“Sent you hell, Alan Bishop,” growled the prisoner. “When I send you word to he'p me out of a scrape that whiskey got me into I 'll do it after I've decently cut my throat. I say!—when you've plead with me like you have to quit the durn stuff!”
At this point of the conversation Jeff Dukes, a man of medium size, dressed in dark-blue uniform, with a nickel-plated badge shaped like a shield and bearing the words “Marshal No. 2,” came directly towards them from a stone-cutter's shop near by.
“Look heer, Bishop,” he said, dictatorially, “whar'd you git the right to talk to that man?”
Alan looked surprised. “Am I breaking the law, too?”
“You are, ef you hain't got a permit from the mayor in yore pocket.”
“Well, I have no permit,” replied Alan, with a good-natured smile. “Have you got another ball an' chain handy?”