“That’s wild talk!” said the Judge, impatiently.
“As it happens,” said Hal, “we are being followed by three of them at this moment—one of them the same Pete Hanun who helped to drive me out of North Valley. If you will turn your head you will see them behind us.”
But the portly Judge did not turn his head.
“I have been informed,” Hal continued, “that I am taking my life in my hands by my present course of action. I believe I’m entitled to ask for protection.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“To begin with, I’d like you to cause the arrest of the men who are shadowing me.”
“It’s not my business to cause such arrests. You should apply to a policeman.”
“I don’t see any policeman. Will you tell me where to find one?”
His Honour was growing weary of such persistence. “Young man, what’s the matter with you is that you’ve been reading dime novels, and they’ve got on your nerves!”
“But the men are right behind me, your Honour! Look at them!”
“I’ve told you it’s not my business, young man!”
“But, your Honour, before I can find a policeman I may be dead!”
The other appeared to be untroubled by this possibility.
“And, your Honour, while you are taking these matters under advisement, the men in the mine will be dead!”
Again there was no reply.
“I have some affidavits here,” said Hal. “Do you wish them?”
“You can give them to me if you want to,” said the other.
“You don’t ask me for them?”
“I haven’t yet.”
“Then just one more question—if you will pardon me, your Honour. Can you tell me where I can find an honest lawyer in this town—a man who might be willing to take a case against the interests of the General Fuel Company?”
There was a silence—a long, long silence. Judge Denton, of the firm of Denton and Vagleman, stared straight in front of him as he walked. Whatever complicated processes might have been going on inside his mind, his judicial features did not reveal them. “No, young man,” he said at last, “it’s not my business to give you information about lawyers.” And with that the judge turned on his heel and went into the Elks’ Club.
VII
Hal stood and watched the portly figure until it disappeared; then he turned back and passed the three detectives, who stopped. He stared at them, but made no sign, nor did they. Some twenty feet behind him, they fell in and followed as before.
Judge Denton had suggested consulting a policeman; and suddenly Hal noticed that he was passing the City Hall, and it occurred to him that this matter of his being shadowed might properly be brought to the attention of the mayor of Pedro. He wondered what the chief magistrate of such a “hell of a town” might be like; after due inquiry, he found himself in the office of Mr. Ezra Perkins, a mild-mannered little gentleman who had been in the undertaking-business, before he became a figurehead for the so-called “Democratic” machine.
He sat pulling nervously at a neatly trimmed brown beard, trying to wriggle out of the dilemma into which Hal put him. Yes, it might possibly be that a young miner was being followed on the streets of the town; but whether or not this was against the law depended on the circumstances. If he had made a disturbance in North Valley, and there was reason to believe that he might be intending trouble, doubtless the company was keeping track of him. But Pedro was a law-abiding place, and he would be protected in his rights so long as he behaved himself.
Hal replied by citing what MacKellar had told him about men being slugged on the streets in broad daylight. To this Mr. Perkins answered that there was uncertainty about the circumstances of these cases; anyhow, they had happened before he became mayor. His was a reform administration, and he had given strict orders to the Chief of Police that there were to be no more incidents of the sort.
“Will you go with me to the Chief of Police and give him orders now?” demanded Hal.
“I do not consider it necessary,” said Mr. Perkins.
He was about to go home, it seemed. He was a pitiful little rodent, and it was a shame to torment him; but Hal stuck to him for ten or twenty minutes longer, arguing and insisting—until finally the little rodent bolted for the door, and made his escape in an automobile. “You can go to the Chief of Police yourself,” were his last words, as he started the machine; and Hal decided to follow the suggestion. He had no hope left, but he was possessed by a kind of dogged rage. He would not let go!
Upon inquiry of a passerby, he learned that police headquarters was in this same building, the entrance being just round the corner. He went in, and found a man in uniform writing at a desk, who stated that the Chief had “stepped down the street.” Hal sat down to wait, by a window through which he could look out upon the three gunmen loitering across the way.
The man at the desk wrote on, but now and then he eyed the young miner with that hostility which American policemen cultivate toward the lower classes. To Hal this was a new phenomenon, and he found himself suddenly wishing that he had put on MacKellar’s clothes. Perhaps a policeman would not have noticed the misfit!
The Chief came in. His blue uniform concealed a burly figure, and his moustache revealed the fact that his errand down the street had had to do with beer. “Well, young fellow?” said he, fixing his gaze upon Hal.
Hal explained his errand.
“What do you want me to do?” asked the Chief, in a decidedly hostile voice.
“I want you to make those men stop following me.”
“How can I make them stop?”
“You can lock them up,
