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McGloin say that he'd rather pass his life here than be a Commissioner of Customs, and live in Merrion Square? Ain't we men? Ain't we fathers and husbands? Have we not sons to advance and daughters to marry in the world, and how much will Nationalism do for these?
And foremost of the string came Swallow, the favorite, Red McGloin, confidently smiling, sitting with the conscious ease of the idol who has carried off the past year's Brooklyn Handicap. Good horses there were; good and true.
For six months Byrnes had tried everything to bring the crime home to him, but in vain. At last he sent out and had McGloin and his two "pals" arrested, but so that none of them knew of the plight of the others. McGloin was taken to Mulberry Street, and orders were given to bring the others in at a certain hour fifteen or twenty minutes apart.
As in this instance, so in the McGloin murder case, the moral certainty of guilt was absolute, but the legal evidence was lacking. McGloin was a young ruffian who had murdered a saloon-keeper at a midnight raid on his place. He was the fellow who the night before he was hanged invited the Chief of Detectives to "come over to the wake; they'll have a devil of a time."
If a sprinter with a light weight up can get away first, she may never be headed till the finish. But it had been a clear break, and Swallow had caught on. The pace was heart-breaking; murderous; terrific. Emetic's rider had taken a chance and lost it; lost it when McGloin caught him. Swallow was a better stayer; as fast as a sprinter.
Byrnes put McGloin at the window in his office while he questioned him. Nothing could be got out of him. As he sat there a door was banged below. Looking out he saw one of his friends led across the yard in charge of policemen. Byrnes, watching him narrowly, saw his cheek blanch; but still his nerve held. Fifteen minutes passed; another door banged.
McGloin took every step of his proceeding with due measure and caution: and having secured a certain number of promises of attendance at the meeting, he next notified to his lordship, how, in virtue of a certain section of a certain law, he had exercised his right of calling the members together; and that he now begged respectfully to submit to the chief, that some of the matters which would be submitted to the collective wisdom would have reference to the 'Buck Goat' himself, and that it would be an act of great courtesy on his part if he should condescend to be present and afford some explanation.
Though only the denizen of a very humble country town, McGloin possessed certain gifts and qualities which might have graced a higher station.
"The colonel is a wreck mentally and physically; living on nerve. I've agreed to put the finishing touches on The Rogue, and he, knowing my ability and facilities, has permitted me. It's all in my hands pretty near. Now, Red McGloin is up on the Morgan entry Swallow. He used to be a stable-boy for Waterbury. I guess you've heard of him. He's developed into a first-class boy.
He's clear. He's clear. There he goes. He's clear. He's slipped the bunch, skinned a leader's nose, jammed against the rail. Look how he's hugging it! Look! He's hugging McGloin's heels. He's waiting, waiting. . . . There, there! It's Emetic. See, she's wet from head to hock. She is, she is! She's tiring; tiring fast. . . . See! . . . McGloin, McGloin, McGloin! You're riding, boy, riding.
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