At the last moment, fearful
that the police might not know who I was, he had flung in a scrapbook
in which he had pasted--with a glue that was to make his fortune--
records of my exploits on the football field!
A dozen miles from Philadelphia the little machine had turned over
on a curve, knocking all the law and most of the enthusiasm out of
Walters, the legal gentleman, and smashing the brandy-bottle.
McWhirter had picked himself up, kicked viciously at the car, and,
gathering up his impedimenta, had made the rest of the journey by
foot and street-car.
His wrath at finding me a prisoner was unbounded; his scorn at
Walters, the attorney, for not confounding the police with law
enough to free me, was furious and contemptuous. He picked up the
oars in sullen silence, and, leaning on them, called a loud and
defiant farewell for the benefit of the officer.
"All right," he said. "An hour or so won't make much difference.
But you'll be free today, all right, all right. And don't let
them bluff you, boy. If the police get funny, tackle them and
throw 'em overboard, one by one. You can do it."
He made an insulting gesture at the police, picked up his oars, and
rowed away into the mist.
But I was not free, that day, nor for many days. As I had expected,
Turner, his family, Mrs.
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