Slowly, with struggling attempts, he raised his hands into the chief's sight. They were horribly swollen hands, red with the dried blood where they were not black with the dried dirt; the fingers puffed up out of shape; the nails broken; they were like the skinned paws of a bear. And at the wrists, almost buried in the bloated folds of flesh, blackened, rusted, battered, yet still strong and whole, was a tightly locked pair of Bean's Latest Model Little Giant handcuffs. "Great God!" cried the chief, transfixed at the sight. He drew the bolt and jerked open the lower half of the door. "Come in," he said, "and lemme get them irons off of you--they must hurt something terrible." "They can wait," said Mr. Trimm very humbly. "I have worn them a long, long while, I think--I am used to them. Wouldn't you please get me some food first?" [Footnote 2: _From Irvin Cobb's The Escape of Mr. Trimm, His Plight and Other Plights, Copyright, 1913, by George H. Doran Company. By permission of the publishers._] [Illustration] [Illustration: PETER B. KYNE] _FOREWORD_ _In the days of my youth I was happy. I had no money, hence no responsibilities. All I had was a job with wages that never developed into a position with salary. However, out of my stipend I managed to buy a good shotgun and, each fall thereafter, a case of shells with my own special load for quail--one ounce of No. 9 chilled shot with twenty-four grains of Laflin & Rand powder. In "those old days of the lost sunshine" I possessed also two additional treasures--the most wonderful and lovable shooting crony a man ever had and the finest little English setter any man ever killed a quail over. My pal presented me with this dog because he loved me; moreover, he had a weakness for pointers and owned a bitch named Lou._ _Lee Clark and his good dog Lou! What memories they evoke! As I write the years fall away and Lee and Lou and Dick and I are quail-hunting in the hills of California. I see a little swale covered with stunted sage, blackberry bushes and dried nettles, and the dogs are questing through it. Lee Clark is on one side of this swale and I am on the other, and for a moment the dogs are invisible to me. Then, borne to me on the crisp October air, comes Lee's voice_: "_Point!_"