I felt that they were watching me. I remember
turning my head to look back at them. They were still standing
there. It was too dark to see what they looked like--"
"Wait a second," broke in Charlie. "Here's Bill Foss, the constable.
Tell it to him, Court."
The town constable, vastly excited, came up the street, accompanied
by two or three stern-visaged citizens.
"Well, by thunder!" growled the officer, wiping his forehead.
"Somebody's been making a wholesale job of it. Dick Hurdle's 'Jackie'
and Bert Little's 'Prince' are dead as doornails. That makes three.
Now, who the hell,--"
"Just a second,--just a second," cried A. Lincoln Pollock, elbowing
his way into the thick of the new group. "Let me get the facts.
You first, Dick. Where did you find your dog's remains? Now, take
it calm, Dick. Don't cuss like that. I can't print a word of it,
you know,--not a word. Remember there are ladies present, Dick.
You've got to--"
Mr. Hurdle said he didn't give a cuss if all the women in town were
present, he was going to say what he thought of any blankety-blank,--and
so on at great length, despite the fact that the ladies crowded
even a little closer, evidently reluctant to miss a word of his
just and unbridled blasphemy.
The occasion demanded the sonorous efficiency of Mr. Richard
Hurdle. In all Windomville there was no one so well qualified to
do justice to the situation as he.
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