Page:Top-Notch Magazine, May 1 1915 (IA tn 1915 05 01).pdf/103

 and there ain't neither of 'em done nothing for me. Still I s'pose I'm expected to vote for the jedge jest because I happened to be the most capable man they could find for this job. Nobody else I know of wanted it. I took it because it promised to be a purty good thing, not because I'm partic'ler agin' automobilists. I'm goin' to tell you my private idee: I think Nathan Wiggin's turned Greenbush into a graveyard by finin' ev'rybody ketched goin' faster'n eight miles in the town limits. He's give the place a black eye and set people to dodgin' it. He ain't progressive, that's all I got to say."

"And if you've got any sense left in your noodle you won't go round kowwowing that kind of talk. If you did Hey! By gowdy! Here comes a bubble over the hill! Git up! Git out your ticker and ketch him when he passes the big elum. He's hittin' it up like a streak of greased quicksilver."

There was immediate action in the shade of the sumacs. With a sniffling grunt, which held something both of protest and eagerness, Weeping Buzzell heaved himself to his feet, fishing for his watch. On the fence Jeremiah Small already had his timepiece in hand. His snaggy teeth gripped the pipestem; his leathery face expressed the rapacity of the still hunter who has sighted game.

"Ready, now!" he cried. "Ketch him when I give the word. Now!"

Down the winding road shot the automobile, trailing a cloud of dust behind it. Besides the driver, a smooth-faced, bespectacled man of thirty, it contained only one person, a stout, florid, worried-looking individual in the middle years of life.

"Careful, Hitchens!" warned the latter, as the man at the wheel made a turn that barely prevented them from taking to the ditch. "You know you're not used to driving. Don't pile us up."

"Don't worry, sir," returned the driver reassuringly. "You know you've got to catch that train if you're going to get to your office for the conference with the chairman of the State committee. You'll have to talk with old Wiggin over the phone. No time to stop in Greenbush and chin with him now."

"We've got to pick up the boy in town. He must have got there twenty minutes ago. We're liable to meet him starting out after me with a hired car. Keep your eyes peeled."

Around another curve careened the car, and struck the straight, gentle incline running down into the village. Out from behind the sumacs dashed the constables, Jeremiah Small planting himself in the very center of the highway, one hand upflung authoritatively while the other flipped back his coat and revealed the badge pinned to his left suspender. Silas Buzzell backed him up, but with a shade more discretion about blocking the path of the speeding motor car.

"Stop!" shouted Constable Small. "In the name of the law I command you!"

"Hold up!" wheezed Constable Buzzell. "Stop right where ye be!"

"Pinched!" exclaimed the driver, in disgust and consternation.

"Don't stop! Go on!" rasped the florid-faced man at his side. Then he lifted himself above the glass wind shield, flung up his gloved hands, and roared: "Clear the road, you idiots! Out of the way! Get out!"

Seeing the automobile whizzing straight at him without slackening speed to any perceptible degree, Jeremiah Small cast his dignity to the winds and made a leap for safety. Weeping Buzzell backed off the shoulder of the road, caught his heel, and sat down amid the dusty grass of the shallow ditch. The car swished past, the stout man relaxing on the seat, and tore on its way.

"That'll cost ye ten dollars more for defyin' the majesty of the law!" splut-