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youth, even then under the influence of cocaine, another was an old, bewhiskered

hobo, while the third was unquestionably a Chinaman.

Even professional courtesy could scarce restrain Sergeant Flannagan's desire

toward bitter sarcasm, and he was upon the point of launching forth into a

vitriolic arraignment of everything west of Chicago up to and including,

specifically, the Kansas City detective bureau, when the telephone bell at the

chief's desk interrupted him. He had wanted the chief to hear just what he

thought, so he waited.

The chief listened for a few minutes, asked several questions and then, placing a

fat hand over the transmitter, he wheeled about toward Flannagan.

"Well," he said, "I guess I got something for you at last. There's a bo on the wire

that says he's just seen your man down near Shawnee. He wants to know if you'll

split the reward with him."

Flannagan yawned and stretched.

"I suppose," he said, ironically, "that if I go down there I'll find he's corraled a

nigger," and he looked sorrowfully at the three specimens before him.

"I dunno," said the chief. "This guy says he knows Byrne well, an' that he's got it

in for him. Shall I tell him you'll be down--and split the reward?"

"Tell him I'll be down and that I'll treat him right," replied Flannagan, and after

the chief had transmitted the message, and hung up the receiver: "Where is this

here Shawnee, anyhow?"

I'll send a couple of men along with you. It isn't far across the line, an' there

won't be no trouble in getting back without nobody knowin' anything about it--if

you get him."

All right," said Flannagan, his visions of five hundred already dwindled to a

possible one.

It was but a little past one o'clock that a touring car rolled south out of Kansas

City with Detective Sergeant Flannagan in the front seat with the driver and two

burly representatives of Missouri law in the back.

180

The Mucker