both men knew a fog-faded emblem floated in the night. "Mebbe so that flag fight for me now. . . . You think so, mebbe?"
Harrington was touched by this notion of the flag as a symbol of the guarantees of this nation to its citizens. That was not a bad idea at all; the badness only entered when Adam undertook to assist the flag by pumping a bullet into the stomach of the sheriff.
"Those man come with flag. They fakers, robbers. Flag no rob . . . you think so, Lieutenant?"
"You bet your life not, Adam," averred Henry, feeling more and more sorrow, more and more affection for stupid, mistrusting yet trustful Adam John. "The flag will give you a square deal—never doubt it."
As Adam John and Henry were driving into Edgewater, a most unusual succession of blinding lights of motorcars streamed by them; but the streets of the town were deserted and the courthouse was silent.
About eight o'clock next morning, however, the streets of the town began to be filled with some scores of wearied, disgusted and sheepish men who clamored and questioned and swore and tried to explain themselves in various ways. Two of their leaders, George Miller and Danny Simpson, thought to compare notes with Harrington himself.
"And so," concluded Miller, "we shot up the shack at daylight and then burned it."
"Burned it?" Harrington's tone was incisive. His brows were lifted and frowning.
"To the ground. Nothing left but ashes. Just burned it, to—to kind of relieve their feelings, the boys did."
This residence that Adam John had built by his own
