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Rh paused, for I noticed the Moor already changing with my poison. "By heaven! I'd like to have a shot at you for a thousand!" I continued, eyeing him greedily.

"One of the obstacles in a position like mine is the thing you just implied, Mr. Connellan," responded the waywode, almost deferentially. "Same time, this case ought to be followed up, for the sake of the public weal. As valuable as the stack was, I don't give  for it." And he snapped his finger and thumb.

"You may be morally certain of the identity of the scoundrel, but your proofs require to be legally impregnable," I continued, pressing home where he had disclosed weakness of guard. "I know a very respectable man—a Mr. Johnson—who dropped something over a thousand in a case similar to this. The scoundrel was a deep subject; and he got at Johnson for false imprisonment. These roving characters can always get up an alibi, if they're clever. Excuse my meddling in this case, Mr. Q, but you've interested me strongly. You have evidence that this suspected incendiary was seen somewhere down the river yesterday—or up the river was it?—and you saw him somewhere here, this morning. Very well. Would the two descriptions of dress and deportment tally exactly with each other, and with the appearance of the person whom, independently of that evidence, you know to be the perpetrator—I mean the scoundrel of the camp-fire? Consider the opening for an alibi there! You hold the incentive in reserve, I think you said? Pardon me—is it a sufficient one?"

"It don't take much incentive to be sufficient for a vagabone without a shirt to his back" replied the ratepayer, suddenly boiling-over.

"True," I conceded; "but, 'Seek whom the crime profits,' says Machiavelli. What profit would it be to such a scoundrel to do you an injury, Mr. Q?"

"The propertied classes is at the mercy of the thriftless classes," he remarked, with martyr-pride.

"But incendiarism! Mr. Q," I urged in modest protest. "Why, the whole country lives by the farmer: and I'm sure"

"We won't argy the matter, Mr. Collingwood," replied my antagonist, lowering his point. "Possibly I won't trouble you any further over this affair. Your business keeps you on the move," he continued, looking at the paper beside him; "and it might be difficult to effect service. You want your dog. Go into the kitchen; inquire for Miss Jemima, and tell her I authorise her to give you the dog. And a very fine dog he is."

"Thank you, Mr. Q. Good day."

"Good day," replied the boyard, acknowledging my obeisance by a wave of his hand.

It was a near thing, but I had scored, after all. You can't beat the pocket-stroke. Passing through the kitchen, I met the graceful Jim.

"Are you Miss Jemima?" I asked, in the tone you should always use towards women.

A dimple stole into each beautiful cheek as she nodded assent.

"Well, Mr. Q authorises Miss Jemima to give me the kangaroo-dog."