The Glass Village

“Don’t you believe it,” sneered Joel Hackett. “That’s a lot of Red propaganda.”

“What’s the matter, Drake,” said Tommy Hemus, “you a Commie-lover?”

“You shut your damn mouth!” The Scott boy doubled his thin fists.

“All o’ ye shut your mouths,” said Merton Isbel. He walked up to the kneeling man and deliberately measured the distance between the toe of his heavy farm shoe and a point midway between the prisoner’s thighs. “Git up, ye godless furrin whoreson. Git up!”

He let fly.

The man fell forward on his face and lay still.

Judge Shinn’s blue eyes flashed at Johnny with a sort of contempt. Then he went up to Merton Isbel and struck him a heavy blow on the shoulder with the heel of his hand. The old farmer staggered, his mouth wide open with astonishment.

“Now you men listen to me,” said the Judge in a throbbing whisper. “This man is a prisoner. He’s suspected of murder. Suspicion isn’t proof. But even if we knew he was guilty, he’d still have his rights under the law. I will personally swear out a warrant for the arrest of anyone who manhandles him or harms him in any way. Is that clearly understood?” He looked at Constable Hackett. “And since you make so much of your constabulary office, Burney Hackett, I’m holding you responsible for the safety of the prisoner.”

The chinless man said soothingly, “Sure, Judge. I’ll go right along with him in the Hemuses’ car.”

The old jurist stared around at his neighbors. They returned his stare without expression. His lips flattened and he stepped aside, shifting his rifle slightly.

“Boys.” The First Selectman of Shinn Corners nodded toward the fallen man.

The Hemus twins bent over the prisoner, hooked his armpits, and lifted.

He was only half-conscious. The dark gray of his skin had a greenish tinge. His face was a twist of pain.

His legs refused to straighten. They kept making weak attempts to come up tight against his belly.

Tommy Hemus winked. “Now this ain’t manhandlin’, Judge Shinn, is it? You see he won’t walk.” And the brothers dragged the prisoner to their father’s car, his shoetips scraping on the road. Constable Hackett cradled his gun and followed. Hube Hemus was already behind the wheel, looking impatient.

Hackett pulled open one of the rear doors.

“Upsadaisy,” said Tommy Hemus pleasantly. He and his brother heaved, and the fugitive tumbled into the car head first.

The car immediately began to back up. Hemus’s sons jumped in with the prisoner, grinning; Hackett yelped and scrambled in beside their father.

The car was fifty feet down the road before the doors slammed.

“I’m sorry, Judge,” said Johnny in a low voice. “But I’ve either got to go berserk or mind my business.” Judge Shinn said nothing. “I wish I hadn’t met her!” said Johnny.

Orville Pangman was climbing into the cab of his open truck. The other men were pulling themselves up over the tailboard.

“Better ride up here with me, Judge,” called Pangman as he kicked his starter. “Ye’ll get jounced around back there.”

“I’ll ride with the others, Orville,” said the Judge quietly.

Eddie Pangman vaulted in beside his father.

Johnny helped the old man onto the truck in silence. He was about to follow when the truck shot backward; he was almost hurled under the wheels. He clung to the tailboard chain, dragging; if not for the helping hands of the Judge and Ferriss Adams he would have been torn loose. The others looked on curiously, not stirring.

His head ached abominably.

All the way back to Shinn Corners the Cudbury lawyer complained about his sunken car, trying to get a salvage price out of Peter Berry. The rain dripped off his nose bitterly. The storekeeper kept shaking his head and saying in his boomy-smily voice that he couldn’t set a price beforehand, didn’t know how long the job would take, it was a question if his old wrecker had the power to pull a car out that was almost completely buried in bog, though of course he’d be glad to give it a try. Likely need a dredger, too. Might be a mite expensive. If Mr. Adams wanted him to tackle it on a contingency basis... “’Course, you could always get ’Lias Wurley from over Cudbury to come way out here, Mr. Adams, but Wurley’s a high-priced garage...”

In the end Adams threw up his hands. “Couldn’t possibly be worth it,” he said disgustedly. “Anyway, I got a new car on order from Marty Zilliber and all the robber’d allow me on a trade-in was a hundred twenty-five. Hundred twenty-five! I said sure it’s gone a hundred and thirty-two thousand miles, Marty, but I only had a ring job and complete overhaul done at the hundred thousand mark, the rubber’s in good condition, seems to me it’s worth more than a hundred twenty-five, book or no book. But that’s all he’d give me on the trade. So I guess the hell with it. Let the insurance company worry about it. If they want to spend a couple hundred dollars for a dredge and wrecker...”

He had apparently forgotten all about his aunt.