second-storey windows without takin' your bags along looks pretty peculiar.
They locked me in, Ambrose explained, his mouth full of ham.
Locked you in! Now what made 'em do that?
Because I wouldn't do what they wanted me to do.
What did they want you to do? The sheriff was walking slowly up and down the room.
Write a moving picture story.
Well, I can't make head or tail of it, sighed the sheriff, but if you're tellin' the truth why you've got somethin' on 'em. They couldn't hold you here a minute, unless you're crazy.
How soon will I know? Ambrose demanded eagerly.
They're comin' for you today . . . Here's Jack.
A keeper, indeed, had opened the door to permit Jack's entrance. His eyes were blazing, but the puffs underneath them and his unshaven cheeks testified to a sleepless night and a swift toilet. In fact it did not appear that he had undressed at all.
How are you, Ambrose? he inquired anxiously.
I guess I'm all right, Jack, the playwright replied. You look pretty bad.
I feel rotten. Ed, he asked the sheriff, when's this
