The nearest police-station was at Hackingford,
six miles away, on the railroad. I held a consultation with the
station-master, and the gentleman who kept the grocery-store
opposite.
They could think of nothing to be done except to shoot the man, and
to that I objected.
"However," said I, "he can't stay there;" and a happy thought just
then striking me, I called to the boy who drove the village
express-wagon, and engaged him for a job. The wagon was standing
at the station, and to save time, I got in and rode to my house.
Euphemia went over to call on the groceryman's wife until I
returned.
I had determined that the man should be taken away, although, until
I was riding home, I had not made up my mind where to have him
taken. But on the road I settled this matter.
On reaching the house, we drove into the yard as close to the
kitchen as we could go. Then I unlocked the door, and the boy--who
was a big, strapping fellow--entered with me. We found the ex-
broker still wrapped in the soundest slumber. Leaving the boy to
watch him, I went upstairs and got a baggage-tag which I directed
to the chief of police at the police station in Hackingford. I
returned to the kitchen and fastened this tag, conspicuously, on
the lappel of the sleeper's coat. Then, with a clothes-line, I
tied him up carefully, hand and foot. To all this he offered not
the slightest opposition. When he was suitably packed, with due
regard to the probable tenderness of wrist and ankle in one brought
up in luxury, the boy and I carried him to the wagon.
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