Even professional courtesy could scarce restrain Sergeant
Flannagan's desire toward bitter sarcasm, and he was upon
the point of launching forth into a vitriolic arraignment of
everything west of Chicago up to and including, specifically,
the Kansas City detective bureau, when the telephone bell at
the chief's desk interrupted him. He had wanted the chief to
hear just what he thought, so he waited.
The chief listened for a few minutes, asked several questions
and then, placing a fat hand over the transmitter, he wheeled
about toward Flannagan.
"Well," he said, "I guess I got something for you at last.
There's a bo on the wire that says he's just seen your man
down near Shawnee. He wants to know if you'll split the
reward with him."
Flannagan yawned and stretched.
"I suppose," he said, ironically, "that if I go down there I'll
find he's corraled a nigger," and he looked sorrowfully at the
three specimens before him.
"I dunno," said the chief. "This guy says he knows Byrne
well, an' that he's got it in for him. Shall I tell him you'll be
down--and split the reward?"
"Tell him I'll be down and that I'll treat him right," replied
Flannagan, and after the chief had transmitted the message,
and hung up the receiver: "Where is this here Shawnee,
anyhow?"
"I'll send a couple of men along with you.
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