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After all, this was a perfectly normal performance. Just an ordinary bit of business for the cops. Sergeant Madden belched when the squad ship came out of overdrive. He watched with seeming indifference while Patrolman Willis took a spectro on the star ahead and to the left, and painstakingly compared the reading with the ancient survey-data on the Procyron system.
"And what's this all about?" The man said with a mirthless grin, "You're a prisoner. And you're goin' to stay here until the cops let Dimitri Mirov go. It's up to you how fast they spring him." The huge man lifted a telephone from an end table adjoining the sofa and set it on the floor alongside Tom. "Here's a phone. Go ahead and use it, but don't try any funny stuff."
By the time I got into New Hampshire I was pretty well keyed up over those quarries, and I fought shy of railroad cops, "bulls," and constables as I never had before. One evening I went down to the railroad yards at Concord and found a freight train made up and ready to start. I located an empty box-car, slid open the side-door, and climbed in.
Murdoch must have disregarded the order, but the rest of the force had been busy helping the administration. But once they hit the main stem, things were mere routine. The gambling joints took it for granted that beat cops had to be paid, and considered it part of their operating expense. The only problem was that Fats' Place was the first one on the list.
The cops were looking for him everywhere, for news was scarce, and the newspapers were harping again on the failure of the police to suppress the gangs. If they got him before Corrigan came back, the big white finger could not be uplifted; it would be too late then.
Gentleman Jack's voice was plaintive. "I think you might give a fellow a chance to get out good. Give me time to have a guy in Montreal send me a telegram telling me to go up there right away. Otherwise you might just as well put the cops on me at once. The old lady knows I've got business in Canada. You don't need to be rough on a fellow." Jimmy pondered this point. "All right.
Still, what Naseby had said about the country, and riding horseback, and the fishing, and the shooting crows with no cops to stop you, and watermelons for nothing, had sounded wonderfully attractive and quite improbable, except that it was one of Naseby's peculiarly sneaking ways to tell the truth. Anyway, Naseby had left Cherry Street for good, and had gone back to the country to work there.
There was something singularly engaging about him when he grinned. "Gee! If youse ain't goin' to call de cops, I'll talk till de chickens roost ag'in." "Talking, however," said Jimmy, "is dry work. Are you by any chance on the wagon?" "What's dat? Me? On your way, boss!" "Then, you'll find a pretty decent whiskey in that decanter. Help yourself. I think you'll like it."
He finished: "You people have twenty Stuart tanks, and a couple of thousand soldiers and cops and undercover-men, here, guarding against sabotage. Don't you realize that a workman who makes stupid or careless or impulsive mistakes is just as dangerous to the plant as any saboteur?
Bolton," continued Florence, "did he ever stay away like this?" "No," answered Bolton. "Dodger was always very regular about comin' home." "Then something must have happened to him," said Florence, anxiously. "He might have got run in," suggested the apple-woman. "Some of them cops is mighty officious." "Dodger would never do anything to deserve arrest," Florence said, quickly.
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