a gentle tap on
the coco, an' cops the sparks. That's what we done. I goes up an'
takes a few looks aroun', then I whistles an' he appears from the
back, an' goes up to the kitchen for a handout. The old guy opens
the door, an' he goes in. About a minute later he comes out an'
gives me a handful o' little rocks--them I had--an' we go away. He
catches a freight goin' west, an' I swings one for Jersey City."

"When was this?" demanded Chief Arkwright.

"What's to-day?" asked Haney in turn.

"This is Sunday morning."

"Well, it was yesterday mornin' sometime, Saturday. When I gits to
Jersey I takes one o' the little rocks an' goes into a place an'
shows it to the bar-keep. He gives me a lot o' booze for it, an' I
guess I gits considerable lit up, an' he also gives me some money to
pay ferry fare, an' the next thing I knows I'm nabbed over in the
hock-shop. I guess I _was_ lit up good, 'cause if I'd 'a' been right
I wouldn't 'a' went to the hock-shop an' got pinched."

He glanced around at the five other men in the room, and he read
belief in each face, whereupon he drew a breath of relief.

"What town was it?" asked the chief.

"Little place named Coaldale."

"Coaldale," the chief repeated thoughtfully. "Where is that?"

"About forty or fifty miles out'n Jersey" said Haney.

"I know the place," remarked Mr. Birnes.

"You are sure, Haney?" said the chief after a pause. "You are sure
you don't know this other man's name?"

"I don't know it, Boss."

"Who was the man you robbed?"

"I don't know."

The chief arose quickly, and the prisoner cringed in his seat.

"I don't know," he went on protestingly. "Don't hit me again."

But the chief had no such intention; it was merely to walk back and
forth across the room.

"What kind of man was he--a tramp?"

Haney faltered and thoughtfully pulled his under-lip. The cunning
brain behind the bleary eyes was working now.

"I wouldn't call him a tramp," he said evasively. "He had on collar
an' cuffs an' good clothes, an' talked sort o' easy."

"Little, skinny man you said. What color was his hair?"

The chief turned in his tracks and regarded Haney with keen, inquiring
eyes. The prisoner withstood the scrutiny bravely.

"Sort o' blackish, brownish hair."

"Black, you mean?"

"Well, yes--black."

"And his eyes?"

"Black eyes--little an' round like gimlet holes."

"Heavy eyebrows, I suppose?"

"Yes," Haney agreed readily. "They sort o' s