“We’ve got you. Back to Sleepytown for yours. It ain’t a bad idea, hidin’ on a Rubberneck, though. I’ll remember that.”
Softly through the megaphone came the advice of the conductor:
“Better step off, sir, and explain. The car must proceed on its tour.”
James Williams belonged among the level heads. With necessary slowness he picked his way through the passengers down to the steps at the front of the car. His wife followed, but she first turned her eyes and saw the escaped tourist glide from behind the furniture van and slip behind a tree on the edge of the little park, not fifty feet away.
Descended to the ground, James Williams faced his captors with a smile. He was thinking what a good story he would have to tell in Cloverdale about having been mistaken for a burglar. The Rubberneck coach lingered, out of respect for its patrons. What could be a more interesting sight than this?
“My name is James Williams, of Cloverdale, Missouri,” he said kindly, so that they would not be too greatly mortified. I have letters here that will show———”
“You’ll come with us, please,” announced the
[203]
