THE SHERIFF ADMITS HE REVEALED MUCH, BUT—
“I’ve did a heap o’ talkin’ today on this hyar island,” began the Sheriff, “and tolt ’nough sarcumstances about it, an’ its owner, an’ his hist’ry, and matters ’round the Bluff, for a whole passel o’ goddanged lies to be made up out of. Like, fur instance on’y, some o’ them facts what appeared all along the river last night in the Boggtown Bugle, in that story that was said to be skindycated all over the kentry—facts settin’ fo’th the whole hist’ry o’ this island, the int’restin’ financyal aspects tharof an’ tharto, the—but the article itse’f, picked up anywhars ’long the river sence last night, wuz good, I’ll say, fur makin’ a half-dozen passels o’ lies out’n. And then take them other facts I ladeled out t’day—like—but let that pass. The real p’int is that, in the case o’ the story we’ve jest heered, they ’uz a inside sarcumstance—or two!—not public’lly knowed, same bein’—but hyar, Mex, a question of you fu’st. To—to wind up yo’re story.” He surveyed the latter kindly. “You didn’t, I somehow take it, git time to call up that newspaper ed’tor you wuz out gettin’ a story fur last night, befure you—”
“Of course not, Sheriff,” retorted the man addressed, evidently anticipating the rest of the question. “For as can be gathered from my story, it was a case of nip and tuck for Arrow Airfield, so’s not to miss that one and only plane that would go out to Boggtown here. And naturally, at Boggtown this morning, I’d not be making a long-distance call to New York—with the local operator eating up every one of my words. So—”
“I see,” nodded the Sheriff gloomily. “And the result is that, to that thar ed’tor, readin’ the story ’bout Bleeker’s Island today, yo’re jest some onknown Mexican drowned somewhar in the Midwest—and not even fo’tieth half-cousin to the man who ’uz out trying to garner a story in a onus’al way.” He clicked his tongue critically. “And I’d give a pretty—as a suttin widow o’ my acquaintance often says—to know what’s goin’ through the mind o’ th’ party as you ’uz with fur a while last night—as that party l’arns, by raddio or newspaper, that th’ phoney Mex they ’uz with has et river water!”
And he shook his head wonderingly.
But now the man who claimed himself to be Gilbert Blake spoke up.
“But see here—all this isn’t confirmation of this man’s lying sto—”
“Hold it!” ordered the Sheriff coldly. “Fur I’m ’bout to relate now—to an’ fur ever’ man on this island—a sartin epysode tolt me in full and in toty by Phi-laster McCo’niss some two y’ars back—and I’m goin’, mo’over, to tell the whole epysode in toty myse’f—and not jest no p’ticler path or aspyect what ’sposedly confirms Mex hyar. And if they is any man then who says Mex’s story hain’t b’en confirmed—let him speak up—and show how, b’God, tain’t.”
He paused impressively.
And then set forth on what he desired to say.