This was not the Honorable Patches
whom they had known so intimately. The man's clothing was soiled with
dirt, and old from rough usage, with here and there a ragged tear. His
tall form drooped with weariness, and his unshaven face, dark and deeply
tanned, and grimed with sweat and dirt, was thin and drawn and old, and
his tired eyes, deep set in their dark hollows, were bloodshot as though
from sleepless nights. His dry lips parted in a painful smile, as he
dismounted stiffly and limped courteously forward to greet them.
"I know that I am scarcely presentable," he said in a voice that was as
worn and old as his face, "but I could not resist the temptation to say
'Howdy'. Perhaps I should introduce myself though," he added, as if to
save them from embarrassment. "My name is Lawrence Knight; I am a deputy
sheriff of this county." A slight movement as he spoke threw back his
unbuttoned jumper, and they saw the badge of his office. "In my official
capacity I am taking a prisoner to Prescott."
Phil recovered first, and caught the officer's hand in a grip that told
more than words.
Kitty nearly betrayed her secret when she gasped, "But you--you said
that you--"
With his ready skill he saved her, "That my name was Patches? I know it
was wrong to deceive you as I did, and I regret that it was necessary
for me to lie so deliberately, but the situation seemed to demand it.
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