"Where's Bud?" he demanded sharply.
"Home in bed, poor child," said old Mr. Borton.
"Well, doggone his ornery hide, why ain't he here to--" began Anderson,
but checked himself in time to prevent the crowd from seeing that he
expected Bud to act as leader in the expedition. "I wanted him to jot
down notes," he substituted. Editor Squires volunteered to act as
secretary, prompter, interpreter, and everything else that his scoffing
tongue could utter.
"Well, go ahead, then," said Anderson, pushing him forward. Harry led
the party down the dark street with more rapidity than seemed necessary;
few in the crowd could keep pace with him. A majority fell hopelessly
behind, in fact.
Straight into the office walked Harry, closely followed by Blootch and
the marshal. Maude, looking like a monument of sheets, still occupied
the centre of the floor. Without a word, the party filed past the
gruesome, silent thing and into the jail corridor. It was as dark as
Erebus in the barred section of the prison; a cold draft of air flew
into the faces of the visitors.
"Come here, you fellers!" called Anderson bravely into the darkness; but
there was no response from the prisoners.
For the very good reason that some hours earlier they had calmly removed
a window from its moorings and by this time were much too far away to
answer questions.
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