The man who came out of the store was no more than five feet three and so thin that he seemed in imminent danger of collapsing. His nose, covering a fair share of his face, was oddly like a rudder. A few strands of blond hair clung precariously to his head and his eyes were furious. "Did you sell that man a knife?" "Yes, I did." Without further ceremony, but with a roar that seemed incapable of emerging from one so small, the storekeeper bellowed, "Joe!" It was a signal Jeff had heard many times in many voices that expressed it many ways. This was one of the occasions when Tarrant Enterprises, Ltd., had better move fast. The dog fell in beside him as Jeff started to run. He was too late, though. It was as though the storekeeper possessed some magical quality that could conjure up images at will. Jeff's path was suddenly blocked by a burly two-hundred-and-ten-pound man who wore a gun, a constable's badge, an air of authority, and who had never wasted any time acquiring fat. He loomed over Jeff as a mountain looms over a knoll. "What's up?" he demanded. "This peddler," the storekeeper reverted to his customary snappish voice, "is interfering with merchants. He sold Pierre LeLerc a hunting knife." "Did you?" the constable asked Jeff. "Yes, but I have a license." "It's not one that allows you to peddle in business districts," the storekeeper asserted. "Jail him, Joe." "You comin' peaceable?" the constable asked. "Or should I take you!" "Peaceable," Jeff answered hurriedly. "Always peaceable." "Come on, then. Your dog got a license?" "Look for yourself. Just sort of watch your hand." "That dog bite?" "Not usually." "See that he don't, huh?" "I'll see," Jeff promised. He fell resignedly in beside the constable while Pal paced behind him. He thought ruefully of how little a feeling of good fortune could be trusted. Still, by no means would this be the first jail to have him as guest, and probably it would not be the last. He might as well make the best of it. "Nice town you have here," he said companionably. "Yeah," the constable was entirely willing to be friendly, "it's all right." "How long have you been chief of police in Cressman?" "Nine years. Say! That's a good title! Chief of Police, huh?" "You should call yourself that," Jeff asserted. "Do you have much trouble?" The constable shrugged. "It depends." "There's just one thing I wonder about," Jeff said. "I've met a lot of police in a lot of towns. All the rest had silver badges. How come yours is brass?" "It was silver when I got it," the constable said ruefully. "Blame thing turned color on me." "Why don't you polish it?" "I do ever' night. Use soap and all. Can't do a thing with it." "Have you tried Blecker's Silver Polish?" "What's that?" "A polish for badges." "Never heard of it." "Some store in Cressman should stock it." "They don't. I've tried everything they have." He looked searchingly at Jeff. "Do you have any?"