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Updated: May 24, 2025
They were wide-set and protuberant, like a bird's, as though years of being hunted had equipped him with the animal-like faculty of determining without actually looking back just who might be following him. Those alert and wide-set eyes, in fact, must have sighted McCooey at the same time that he fell under the vision of the old cement seller.
He caught many things with it willie-wagtails, laughing-jackasses, fowls, and mostly the dog. Joe was a born naturalist a perfect McCooey in his way, and a close observer of the habits and customs of animals and living things. He observed that whenever Jacob Lipp came to our place he always, when going home, ran along the fence and touched the top of every post with his hand.
It was only when McCooey pushed his way in through the crowd and put a hand on his shoulder that the old cement seller slowly rose to his feet. He was still panting and blowing. But as he lifted his face up to the sky his body rumbled with a Jove-like sound that was not altogether a cough of lungs overtaxed nor altogether a laugh of triumph. "I got him!" he gasped.
The man known as Batty may or may not have been about to answer him. His lips moved, but no sound came from them. His attention, apparently, was suddenly directed elsewhere. For approaching him from the east his eyes had made out the familiar figure of old McCooey, the oldest plain-clothes man who still came out from Headquarters to "pound the pavement."
There was muffled and meditative belligerency in the look. There was also gratification, for it was the move he had been expecting. "I always said McCooey was n't the man to go out on that case," said the Second Deputy, still watching Copeland. "Then who is the man?" asked the Commissioner. Blake took out a cigar, bit the end off, and struck a match.
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