“Well, suh, a nigger is habin’ a show in dis town an’ he calls hisse’f a Handcuff King. He specify dat he’s a Monarch of de Manacle. He argufy dat dar ain’t no kind of handcuff made dat he can’t git hisse’f loose from in less’n five minutes. Does you reckin dat is so, Marse John?” “Certainly,” the sheriff answered promptly. “How come?” Skeeter asked. This was one theme upon which the sheriff was competent to speak. He leaned back in his chair, lighted a cigar, and began: “There are one hundred and forty-two varieties of handcuffs and leg-irons manufactured in the civilized world, Skeeter, but there are only thirty-two separate brands which are registered for use by officers of the law in the United States. Four master keys will unlock all thirty-two of these leg-irons and handcuffs.” “Listen to dat!” Skeeter exclaimed. “I venture to say that that negro showman has all the regulation handcuffs in use in this country, as well as some of European manufacture. Of course, he also has the keys to unlock them.” “Whar do he tote de keys?” Skeeter asked eagerly. “Oh--everywhere!” Flournoy smiled. “In the lining of his clothes, in his shoes and socks, in his sleeves and cuffs, down his collar, even in his mouth--everywhere!” “Huh!” Skeeter grunted. “Dat’s too bad.” There was a long silence while Flournoy smilingly watched Skeeter think. The negro’s face was a pantomime of conflicting emotions, and the general effect made for gloom and depression. Finally Flournoy spoke: “My information seems to discourage you, Skeeter. What’s the problem?” “It’s dis way, Marse John,” Skeeter said earnestly. “Dat uppity, biggity nigger is done offered twenty-five dollars reward fer any handcuff he cain’t git off in five minutes, an’ I figgered dat I had a show to make de money.” Flournoy thought a moment, then broke into a loud chuckle. “I think you have a splendid chance to copper the coin, Skeeter. Wait here a minute!” Flournoy opened a steel door, walked to the rear of the vault, and pawed over a lot of trash in one corner. Then he came out and tossed a handful of police hardware on the floor at Skeeter’s feet. “I think they will hold him,” Flournoy laughed. Skeeter gasped as he eyed the cruelest collection of manacles and shackles he had ever seen. There was a pair of home-made wrought-iron handcuffs with a stiff iron bar a foot long to connect the bracelets instead of a chain. There was a pair of cumbersome leg-irons which were used a half century ago in Southern convict camps, but whose use is now prohibited. And there was something else which gave Skeeter a sinking sensation at the pit of his stomach merely to look at. It was a pair of trigger cuffs. Any attempt to loosen them by the wearer has the effect of tightening the bracelets while at the same time a needle trigger presses deeper and deeper into the flesh of the wrist until the captive is helpless with pain.