CHAPTER XXVII
It was an agitated little county official who sat in the office of the judge of probate of Blueberry County and whispered into a telephone.
"I tell you, Jim, there ain't nothin' I can do if the complainin' witness don't show up. No—no—I can't—I'm helpless. Can't you come down and talk it over?" glancing at the clock. "It's only nine-thirty; we got a half hour."
"No, I can't come. This thing looks like a fliv, and if it does, the less anybody knows about it, includin' J. H., the better." A grit came into his lowered voice. "And if—get out, Central!—any stories get around we'll know damned well where they come from."
"But, Jim, what can I do?"
"Stall, you poor simp! Stall and give us a chance to dig up our party!"
At ten o'clock Humphrey Bryant entered the court room, trying to keep the droop from his shoulders.
"Say, Hump, I made a mistake in th' time; Come back at eleven, will you?" the judge asked.
And at eleven the editor was there—and waited until twelve and the judge made excuses and went out and darted into the Commercial House and inquired frantically for Harris.
"He said," said Henry, coughing into his pallid cigar, "he said if you called that he couldn't keep his engagement this mornin'. He said you'd understand."
