“True enough. What’s up, Jim? Why all this hide-and-go-seek business?” “I dunno what’s up, but somethin’s gonna be pulled off. The Dodsons want you locked up in the calaboose while the fireworks are on. If they want you in, we want you out. That’s how I figure it.” “Why not oblige ’em and put me in jail? Then they’ll be easy in their minds an’ start in on their programme. You can fix it so I escape when I’m needed.” But Budd had opinions of his own on that point. “No, sir, I don’t aim to let any prisoners break outa my jail if I can help it. While I’m sheriff I’ll be a sure enough one. Onct you git behind the bars you’re my prisoner an’ I’m an officer sworn to keep you there. But now I’m old Jim Budd an’ you’re Kid McClintock.” This seemed to Hugh a distinction without a difference, but he understood that to Budd it made the line of cleavage between what was the square thing and what was not. He did not attempt to argue with him. “All right. Have it yore own way, old-timer.” The sheriff went downstairs and reported to his men that they would go down and search the corral stable for the man they wanted. “Some of us ce’tainly would have seen him if he’d been in this house,” he concluded. One of the deputies, who was rolling a cigarette, grinned down at the makings. It chanced that he had heard voices in the attic. “Some of us sure would,” he agreed affably. “Me, I ain’t lost McClintock awful bad anyhow.” CHAPTER XXXV McCLINTOCK READS TENNYSON Miss Lowell, schoolmarm, sat in the parlour of her boarding house and corrected spelling papers. Across the lamplit table from her was Hugh McClintock. He was browsing through a volume of poems written by the man who had been for two decades and still was the world’s most popular philosopher of progress. The book was Vicky’s, and she handed it to him with a word of youth’s extravagant praise. “I think he’s the greatest poet that ever lived.” Hugh smiled. “He’ll have to step some.” He mentioned Shakespeare and others. But Vicky flamed with the enthusiasm of a convert. “It’s not only the music of his words. It’s what he says. He shakes the dead bones so. If you haven’t read ‘In Memoriam’ you must.” “I’ve read it.” “Did you ever read anything so—so inspiring?” “It’s great. Remember that Flower-in-the-crannied-wall piece. I don’t recollect how it goes exactly, but he pulls it out by the roots an’ talks at it. Says if we knew what it was and how it had come we’d know what God and man are. I reckon that’s right. He sure set me thinking.” “I love him.” The girl’s face was aglow in the lamplight. “He’s just wonderful, that’s all.”