A voice on the end of the wire broke in upon this amazing conversation,
and Billy with difficulty adjusted his jaded mind, to the matter in
hand: "'Z'is the Chief? Say, Chief, a coupla guys stole a machine--
Holes-Mowbrays--license number 6362656-W--Got that? New York tag.
They're on their way over to the State Line beyond the Cross Roads.
They're gonta run her in the field just beyond the woods, you know.
They're gonta give a flash light signal to their pal, three winks, count
three slow, and three winks more, and then beat it. Then some guy is
gonta wreck the machine. It's up to you and your men to hold the
machine till I get the owner there. He don't know it's pinched yet,
but I know where to find him, an' he'll have the license and can
identify it. Where'll I find you? Station House? 'Conomy? Sure! I'll
be there soon's I get'im. What's that? I? Oh, I'm just a kid that
happened to get wise. My name? Oh rats! That don't cut any ice now!
You get on yer job! They must be almost there by now. I gotta beat
it! Gub-bye!"
Billy was all there even if he had been up all night. He hung up with a
click, for he was anxious to hear what the men were saying. They had
finished their glasses and were preparing to leave. The old one was
gabbling on in a querrilous gossipy tone: "Well, it'll go hard with Mark Carter if the man dies. Everybody knows
he was here, and unless he can prove an alibi--!"
They were crawling reluctantly out of their haunts now, and Billy could
catch but one more sentence: "Well, I'm sorry fer his ma. I used to go to school with Mrs. Carter
when we were kids."
They were gone out and the room suddenly showed empty. The waiter was
fastening the shutters. In a moment more he would be locked in. Billy
made a silent dash among the tables and slid out the door while the
waiter's back was turned. The two men were ambling slowly down the road
toward Economy. Billy started on a dead run. His rubber soled shoes
made no echo and he was too light on his feet to make a thud. He
disappeared into the grayness like a spirit. He had more cause than
ever now for hurry. Mark! Mark! His beloved Mark Carter! What must he
do about it? Must he tell Mark? Or did Mark perhaps know? What had
happened anyway? There had evidently been a shooting. That Cherry
Fenner was mixed up in it. Billy knew her only by sight. She always
grinned at him and said: "Hello, Billee!" in her pretty dimpled way. He
didn't care for her himself. He had accepted her as a part of life, a
necessary evil. She wore her hair queer, and had very short tight
skirts, and high heels. She painted her face and vamped, but that was
her affair. He had heretofore tolerated her because she seemed in some
way to be under Mark Carter's recent protection. Therefore he had
growled "Ello!" grimly whenever she accosted him and let it go at that.
If it had come to a show down he would have stood up for her because he
knew that Mark would, that was all. Mark knew his own business. Far be
it from Billy to criticize his hero's reasons. Perhaps it was one of
Mark's weaknesses. It was up to him. That was the code of a "white man"
as Billy had learned it from "the fellas."