locksmith's and have him open the trunk, instead of breaking it all up."
Opper said nothing. The thought of someone's opening the trunk made icy moisture ooze out on the palms of his hands.
"Sure this is your trunk?" the man droned flatly.
"What business is it of"
"I'm the sheriff around here. You're sure it's your trunk—and your car?"
"Why, of course," Opper began pompously. Then his teeth went on edge as the sound he had been dreading came faintly forth.
The ghastly whimper from the trunk.
"Certainly it's my car," he chattered quickly, his voice loud and shrill. "I have papers and identification of every kind. And there's a tag on my key-ring with my initials on it—just step up here and I'll show you."
He caught the sheriff by the shoulder and began impelling him toward the front of the car, away from the trunk.
"What the hell!" exclaimed the sheriff, breaking away. "Are you crazy? Let's see your identification"
"Of course! Of course! Just step up in front, here, and I'll show you my card of ownership and driving-license with my signature on it"
"All right, I'm not deaf," snapped the sheriff.
But he walked after Opper, away from the rear of the sedan, to Opper's almost fainting relief. That ghostly, horrible whimper. . . .
Away from the trunk, with the whimper sounding so low that he was not sure he was hearing it himself, Opper began to realize from a practical stand-point just what was happening here.
Give name, address, and license numbers to an officer of the law? How fine that would be if anything slipped in the future and he were brought into court! He began to tremble again, but managed to conceal it from the man's keen eyes. At least he hoped he did. He felt elaborately through his pockets.
"I don't seem to have my wallet," he said finally. "I must have lost"
The man's straight, slow stare stopped him.
"You'd better have ownership card, driving-license, identification, and everything else," he said softly. "Because it certainly looks funny—to catch a man out in the country trying to hammer open his car trunk when it would be so easy to go to a locksmith and have it done right."
Opper swallowed and brought forth his wallet. It had to be done.
In numb despair, he saw the sheriff copy down his name and address, his license and motor numbers, and the address of the bank where he was assistant cashier. It was about the worst thing that could have happened to him. But he couldn't move to stop it. It would be infinitely worse to be hauled to a local station and have the trunk forced open. . . .
His heart seemed to stop at the thought. And at the same time he heard the whimper from the trunk sound a little louder.
"Well, is everything all right?" he said instantly to the sheriff, his voice rising high again. "I can telephone the bank to identify me if you like, and I am slightly known in the branch bank at Huntingdon, thirty miles from here, if you want to go there with me and"
"Stop yelling!" snapped the sheriff. "I guess it's okay, Mr. Opper. You have a right to break open your own trunk if you want to. But I still think it's funny."
Opper jabbed the starter button and
