The editor smiled dryly. "He does, but he is finding some difficulty in digesting some of yours, Jim, and I'm not surprised at it."

Jim held over the desk 'phone to Hannington.

"Better 'phone up for Palmer and get it over."

Hannington pushed the receiver away.

"I refuse,--I--I decline absolutely. I shan't prosecute,--d.a.m.ned if I do! It is downright blackmail. Yes,--by gad! Give me back my cheque, Mr. Todd, and let me go. I'm jolly-well sick of this."

"'Give me my princ.i.p.al and let me go,'" quoted Jim in mockery.

"I can't do that, Mr. Hannington. Sorry," said the editor, "but if you decline to prosecute, the money goes to Mr. Langford."

"Then, by gad!" cried Hannington, "I shall prosecute to the utmost deuced rigour of the bally law, and be-dimned to him. You cawn't fool lightly with a DeRue Hannington,--no sirs!

"I'll have you understand we DeRue Hanningtons are fighters. My great-great-grandfathers both fought at Waterloo, DeRue on the side of the French and Hannington on the side of the British,--yes, sirs!"

"I'm thinking maybe that explains why you are not quite sure now whether you are the prosecutor or the prosecuted," pawkily remarked Jim.

Hannington glared, grabbed up the telephone and called for the police station. As usual, Palmer was up on his ranch, and Hannington had to be contented with Howden, the deputy, who got over to the _Advertiser_ office almost immediately and, in a very short s.p.a.ce of time afterwards, he had the not unwilling Jim safely locked up for the night in the town jail.

Howden, to save himself a little labour--ostensibly for the sake of his friendship with Jim, but really to leave himself free for his evening's amours with a waitress at the Kenora--offered to allow Jim to go home if he would promise to show up at the Court in the morning, but Jim was too fond of experience and too susceptible of melodrama to pa.s.s up so golden an opportunity;--he refused to give his parole and in consequence slept soundly and innocently on a little camp bed, in a ten by five cell, at the expense of the munic.i.p.ality.

As soon as the news got about--which it did with astounding rapidity--the entire town was in a fit of merriment over the latest exploit of the wily Langford and the discomfiture of DeRue Hannington; and early the following morning, when the local police magistrate was still negotiating his matutinal egg, the little Courtroom was packed to overflowing.

Phil called off work for an hour or two in order to be on hand should Jim require his aid in any way.

The voluminous and cheerful judge disposed of a case of petty thieving in quick time, then called the case against James Langford for cruelty to animals and destruction of property.

When Jim appeared--his eyes twinkling, but his face as solemn as a parish minister at the funeral of a wealthy and generous member of his congregation, a m.u.f.fled cheer broke out, which was promptly squelched by the magistrate, to DeRue Hannington's undisguised pleasure.

The case against Jim was read. He pleaded guilty, refusing lawyer's aid or the privilege of stepping into the witness box. There were no dramatics--at least not until the police magistrate p.r.o.nounced the sentence.

"James Langford," he droned severely, "have you ever been tried before for a criminal act of any kind?"

"No, sir!"

"This is your first offence?"

"No, sir!--but the first time I've been caught."

"Now, Jim,--that'll do!" reprimanded the magistrate, forgetting his courtly dignity for the moment and breaking into a grin; for Jim and he were cronies of long standing.

"I deeply regret that I cannot give you the benefit of the First Offender's Act. These boyish pranks of yours must be put down. You will be breaking windows and riding your horse on the sidewalk next if we allow you to go on in this way, unpunished. You are a big lad now and it is high time you were beginning to take life seriously."

Hannington nodded his head approvingly, and clasped his hands over his stomach.

"In p.r.o.nouncing sentence, I hope you will take this lesson to heart and that this will be your last appearance before this or any other Court of Justice.

"I fine you fifty dollars and costs, and command that you wash and scrub Percival DeRue Hannington's mare, between the hours of two and four p.m. in front of the Court House, every day, until the animal is restored to its natural colour."

A wild laugh and a great shuffling of feet greeted the sentence.

DeRue Hannington sprang up indignantly, his face bursting red with anger.

"But sir--but sir--I--I! Fifty dollars?--why--I paid one thousand dollars to get him here. Your Honour, it is a positive scandal--a perfect outrage!"

"Silence, sir!" commanded the magistrate.

"But it is an outrage, sir. I insist--it is a low, beastly trick. I appeal--I----"

"Silence!" roared the magistrate again. "One word more, sir, and I'll commit you for contempt of Court. Next case!"

At the Court House door the crowd seized upon Jim, hoisted him on their shoulders and carried him down Main Street, singing and chaffing as happily as if Jim had just won an election.

At the Commercial Bank Jim stopped them and beckoned to Phil.

"Say!--get your thousand dollars out of the Bank and we'll have the crowd take us to Dalton's office right away. I got Hannington's cheque, marked O.K., from Ben Todd in the Court House. We'll call Dalton's bluff for once--and at once."

Phil rushed into the Bank and was back in three minutes with the money in his possession.

"Now boys!" shouted Jim, "down to Dalton's office and then to the Kenora."

Off they went, shouting and singing as before, not particular as to what it was all about, but simply keen on making an uproar--and as big a one as possible--now that the opportunity presented itself.

James Dalton--sole proprietor of the Dalton Realty Company--was standing at the door of his office, watching the actions of the oncoming crowd. The moment he saw Jim, however, he hurried inside.

The mob stopped at the door. Jim jumped to the ground.

"Come on in, Phil! Stay there, boys--just for a minute or two. There are drinks for the crowd at the end of this trip."

By this time, Dalton was sitting behind his desk, his thumb in the armhole of his vest, nervously chewing at the end of an unlighted cigar.

"I bought the Brantlock Ranch from you the other day, Rattler."

"That's right,--go to it!" ventured Dalton as a try-out. "I kind of half expected something like this."

"Are you going to deny it?"

"If you mean, am I going to deny that I gave a gink, half dippy with booze, an Agreement for Sale in temporary exchange for a bunch of horses that he couldn't look after and was liable to have pinched on him; if you mean am I going to deny that I did it to save him losin'

what he couldn't keep an eye on himself,--then I ain't."

Dalton leaned back, still pale from excitement but not at all unsatisfied with his vocal delivery.

Jim looked over to Phil in sheer astonishment at the man's audacity.

Phil smiled in return.

"What do you think of that now;--the Rattler turned 'good Samaritan'?