The town clock in the tower of the new city hall was striking eleven when good old John Runnels and the constable came for me. At the final moment I was telling myself feverishly that it would be of no use for me to try to bribe honest Sam Jorkins; that this was the fatal weakness in my plan of escape. Hence, I could have shouted for joy when Runnels unlocked the cell door and turned me over, not to Jorkins, but to a stranger; a hard-faced man roughly dressed, and with the scar of a knife slash across his right cheek. "This is Bill Simmons, a deputy from Jefferson, Bertie; come to take you over to the county ja--to the sheriff's office," said Runnels. "I've told him he ain't goin' to have no use for them handcuffs he's brought along." "That may be," growled the sheriff's messenger. "All the same, I ain't takin' no chances--not me!" and with that he whipped the manacles from his pocket. But Runnels intervened quickly. "Nary!--not here in my shop, you don't, Simmons," he said. "For two cents I'd go along with Bertie, myself, if only to see to it that he gets a fair show. You treat him right and white, or I'll fire you out, warrant or no warrant!" When we reached the street I said I wanted to go around by way of my boarding-house for a change of clothing. "That's all been 'tended to," said the surly deputy, with a jerk of his thumb toward a suitcase in the seat beside the driver of the hack carriage. "You get in and keep quiet; that's all you've got to do." After this he said nothing and made no further move until we were jouncing along on our way to the railroad station. Then, without warning, he turned upon me suddenly and tried to snap the hand-cuffs on my wrists. It was all I was waiting for; something to pull the trigger. In a flash the savage, which, in the best of us, lies but skin-deep under the veneer of habit and the civilized conventions, leaped alive. There was a fierce grapple in the interior of the darkened carriage--fierce but silent--and the blood sang in my veins when I found that I was more than a match for the scar-faced deputy. With fingers to throat I choked him into submission, and when I had taken his pistol and hand-cuffed him with his own manacles, the step that made me a criminal in fact had been overpassed. "One yip out of you, and you get a bullet out of your own gun!" I warned him; and then I got speech with the driver, a squat, thickset Irishman, whose face and brogue were both strange to me. "Drive to the Farmers' Bank--side door--and be quick about it!" I called to him over the lowered window-sash. "I'm hired to go to the train. Who's payin' me for the side-trip?" he queried impatiently. "I am," I snapped; adding: "There's money in it for you if you put the whip on."