“Jes’ at daylight, boss!”

“An’ wot was you-all a-doin’ down hee-ar?”

“He was a-stealin’ coal f’um the coalkiars,” put in one of the posse, “in cohse!”

All laughed.

“Anyhow, I done seed two o’ dem,” protested the boy, comically, “wot evah else I done!”

Everybody was now hilarious.

“Whar’s yoah buddy?” I was asked.

“Did unt you-all hev no buddy wit’ you?”

“Yes, I did have a buddy with me, but—­” trying to give Bud a chance of escape,—­“but he caught a freight West, just a little bit ago.”

“You’re a liar,” said the one in authority, who I afterward heard was the head-clerk of the company that ran the warehouse.  The negro boy had run to his house and roused him.  He had drawn the posse together....

“You’re a liar!  Your buddy’s still in there!”

“No, I’ll sweah they haint nobuddy else,” protested McAndrews.

But prodded by their urging, he climbed in again over the sacks of guano, and soon brought out Bud, who had waked, heard the rumpus, and had been hiding, burrowed down under the hay as deep as he could go.

There was a burst of laughter as he stood framed in the doorway, in which I couldn’t help but join.  He had such a silly, absurd, surprised look in his face ... a look of stupefied incredulity, when he saw all the men drawn up to receive him.  From a straggled lock of hair that fell over one eye hung several long hay-wisps.  His face looked stupid and moon-fat.  He rolled his big, brown eyes in a despairful manner that was unconsciously comic.  For he was, instinctively, as I was not, instantly and fully aware of the seriousness of what might come upon us for our innocent few hours’ sleep.

“Come on, boys.  Up with your hands till we go through your pockets.”

On Bud’s hip they found a whiskey flask, quarter-full.  In my inside pocket, a sheaf of poor verse—­I had barely as yet come to grips with my art—­and, in an outside pocket, the Bible I had filched from the woman’s sewing machine in Tuscon.

The finding of the Bible on my person created a speechless pause.

Then—­

“Good Gawd!  A bum with a Bible!”

Awe and respect held the crowd for a moment.

* * * * *

The march began.

“Where are you taking us to?”

“To the calaboose.”

Down a long stretch of peaceful, Sunday street we went—­small boys following in a curious horde, and Sunday worshippers with their women’s gloved hands tucked in timidly under their arms as we passed by.  They gave us prim, askance glances, as if we belonged to a different species of the animal kingdom.

Buck negroes with their women stepped out into the street, while, as is customary there,—­the white men passed, taking us two tramps to jail.  We came to a high, newly white-washed board fence.  Within it stood a two-story building of red brick.  On the fence was painted, in big black letters the facetious warning, “Keep out if you can.”  A passage in through the gate, and McAndrews first knocked at, then kicked against the door.