Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 2, September 24, 1927

“Why, they’ed as soon cut your throat as look at you, from all I hear and read about their kind. Why... why — can’t you do something, Whitcher? I haven’t got any ten thousand — I can’t even dig up much more than two, say — and God only knows what those brutes will do to my little Essie, outside of murdering—”

He shook the lapels in a frenzy, as his voice broke off in a choking gasp, and he ended up his plea in a mad cry:

“Oh, God — save my Essie!”

The sheriff of Noel’s Landing, with a great sigh, put out his arms and rested his hands on the shoulders of Amos Crocker. He did it gently, as if he, were babying a troubled child.

“Amos,” he said very softly. “I’ve did m’ best. I... I’m right sorry I’ve gone ’n’ failed, I am, but them dummed kidnapers seem t’ be — well, a mite too slick f’r me. I got t’ admit defeat, it looks like, no matter how it’ll hurt me in the vote. I... well, Amos, they’s on’y one thing I c’n think of, t’... t’ save y’r Essie!”

Whitcher stopped, his eyes going very wide as he stared solemnly at the other.

“What... what’s that, Bemis?” the hardware merchant wanted to know, after the sheriff had kept on gazing at him without uttering a word.

“Tell y’ w’ot it is, Amos,” elucidated Whitcher. “We got t’ give in t’ them devils, I guess. Well, you ain’t got the ten thousan’, like y’ say, so I cal’late we’ll have t’ make it a sort o’ fam’ly party all ’roun’.

“I... I mean, Amos, we’ll see ’f the boys ’n East Chat’am ’n’ Noel’s Landin’ ’n’ Gor-’am can’t go ’n’ c’n — c’ntribute a measly ten thousan’ t’ rescue the daughter o’ a worthy cit’zen!”

Crocker’s eyes lit up, behind his glasses, almost avidly. Then, literally, he fell on Whitcher’s neck. He blabbered out his gratitude excitedly, and it was a full five minutes before the sheriff could sufficiently calm him down and make him understand that he would take over the task of collecting the ransom.

V

The sheriff of Noel’s Landing, back in the war days, had proved himself a canny individual when it came to making tightwads shell out for the Liberty Loan. He had, probably, hung up the best records of any one in the county, and he had done it from friend and enemy alike.

He showed, on Friday morning, that his gift for talking currency away from people had not deserted him. Explicitly, he had got together the ten thousand dollars shortly before the one o’clock whistle blew at the East Chatham sawmill.

Men had come down what is known as handsomely, and even Ira Colton of the First National Bank — who had, incidentally, a daughter of Essie’s age — was reputed to have disgorged precisely five hundred.

And, it might be mentioned, Amos Crocker had not been the worthy and beloved citizen that Whitcher had told him he was; indeed, he had always been a distressingly unpopular one. But a girl in danger is a girl in danger — and men, after all, are men.

Whitcher, naturally, was subjected to numerous caustic comments, in most cases started by Chet Thomas and Boyce Hutchins. A fine sheriff he was, all right, all right, to let a bunch of Wops come up into his bailiwick and kidnap a person and hide her so well that a man who called himself a born woodsman couldn’t find her.

They quizzed him, though, good-naturedly, for there was clean sporting blood in these men of the remote Maine logging country. They gave their money and they called it a day, that was all.

One or two of them — Ira Colton the banker, primarily — of course, suggested that Porcupine Cave be watched while the cash was being deposited — but Bemis as well as Amos Crocker hastily warned them that any such move might have dire results. Why, they might cut Essie’s throat, right then and there. Hot-blooded, them foreign fellows — hot-blooded and crazy-brained.

It was agreed, anyway, that the best might as well be made of a bad bargain. The money was given to Whitcher, and he placed it in the bank for safe keeping. In the morning, he said, he would roll up in his flivver and procure it, as the cashier had consented to be on the job before eight.

After that, the sheriff said, he could drive to the trail that would lead to the stipulated place of deposit on Creepy Hollow Mountain. He would be there, he assured Amos and every one else, long ahead of the hour set by the kidnapers for payment.

Everything, he positively informed the hardware man, was what the younger generation termed hunkydory — so much so, in fact, that he absolutely and well-nigh forcefully insisted that the father who was about to regain his daughter go out and celebrate the lucky occasion with him. And, with Whitcher, what did celebrating mean, at this season of the year, but traipsing off to the Stony after trout?

VI

There was one remarkable thing about that fishing journey — a thing that had never happened before and that most indubitably would never happen again. It was the first time that