There was a new sergeant at the desk, an Irishman. "Please, sir," said
the boy, "is this where I get a permit?"
"For what?" asked the other.
"To hold a meeting on the street, sir."
"What sort of a meeting?"
"Why--I've just got something to say to the people, sir."
"Something to say to the people!" echoed the other; and then,
suddenly, "What's your name?"
"Samuel Prescott, sir."
And the sergeant's eyes opened wide. "Oh!" he said. "You're that
fellow!"
"What did you say?" asked Samuel.
"The chief wants to see you," replied the other.
And so Samuel was escorted into the private room, where Chief
McCullagh, red-faced and burly, sat at his desk. When he saw Samuel he
bounded to his feet. "So here you are!" he cried.
To the sergeant he said, "Leave us alone." And when the man had shut
the door, he strode toward Samuel, and thrust a finger into his face.
"Young fellow," he cried, "you promised me you would get out of this
town!"
"No!" exclaimed the boy.
"What?" roared the other.
"No, sir! It was Charlie Swift promised you that!"
"And what did you promise?"
"I promised I wouldn't tell anyone about--about Master Albert, sir.
And I haven't done it."
"I told Charlie Swift to take you out of town. And why didn't you go?"
"He didn't--" And then Samuel stopped. He had promised to tell nothing
about Charlie.
"Go on!" cried the chief.
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