“Toby,” I said in a low voice, “this looks serious.” “Bandits!” said Toby, her tone confirming my suspicions. “Get out the monkey wrench, and point it as if it were a gun. I’ll try to crowd past the car and up the hill.” “If we only had the ammonia pistol,” sighed Toby, murderously, getting the wrench and cocking it. A gentle voice tinged with the sharp edge of command came from the younger man. “Better stop a minute, lady!” We stopped, entirely contrary to our hastily made plans. Something in his level tone, and in a quick little gesture the man behind him made, changed our minds. Without removing his hand from his hip the other man, who I quickly decided was the more desperate character of the two, strolled about our car with an appraising and well satisfied look. At that moment we felt we were indeed a long, long ways from home. I began to calculate the time it would take to walk to Tucson,--hampered, possibly, by a bullet wound. Then he pulled open his coat, and a gleam of metal caught the sunlight. “I’m the sheriff of Pima County,” he said, briefly. I did not believe him. I put my foot on the gas, and tightened my grip on the wheel, measuring the road ahead and calculating the slight chance of crowding past his car and up the steep hill ahead. “Please show us your badge again, if you don’t mind.” He gave us a full view of it this time. It looked genuine enough,--a silver star, not quite so large as the planet Jupiter, with rays darting therefrom, and Pima printed on it in bold letters,--a staggering affair, calculated to inspire respect for law and order. “Were we speeding?” Toby faltered, remembering Houston. “We’re making a little search,” he replied very crisply. “Search,--for what?” “Booze, for one thing,” said the lank young man. The other did not waste words. It was evident from their manner they expected to find what they were hunting for. They walked about and punched our tires, darkly suspicious. We could not have felt more guilty if we had been concealing the entire annual output of Peoria. I heard Toby gasp, and knew she was wondering what Brattle St. would say. “Where did you come from?” asked the sheriff. “Benson,” we replied, mentioning the last town we had passed through. “Ah!” Evidently a highly incriminating place to come from. They proceeded to examine our suit-cases thoroughly. “I hate to search ladies,” said the sheriff, in brief apology, “but if ladies _will_ smuggle booze into Pima County, it has to be done.” At that moment his assistant caught sight of our knobby looking auto trunk. “Ah!” Such a queer shaped trunk was beyond explanation. I handed over the keys in silence. They made a grim search, with no sign of unbending until they came to our funny little folding stove. Then the sheriff permitted a short smile to decorate his official expression, and I knew the worst was over. A moment later, the lank young man discovered our number-plate. “Say! Are you from Massachusetts, lady?” “Boston.”