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derby hat, who was sitting
across the aisle. This stranger had been listening with great curiosity to the
dialogue between our hero and the train boy.
    “I am a pawnbroker,” he said. “If
you let me examine the ring, I can surely give you some idea of its value.”
    Lem handed
the article in question to the stranger, who put a magnifying glass into his
eye and looked at it carefully.
    “My young friend, that ring is worth
all of fifty dollars,” he announced.
    “I’m certainly in luck,” said Lem . “The crook only stole twenty-eight dollars and sixty
cents from me. But I’d rather have my money back. I don’t want any of his.”
    “I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said
the self-styled pawnbroker. “I’ll advance you twenty-eight dollars and sixty
cents against the ring, and agree to give it back for that sum and suitable
interest if the owner should ever call for it.”
    “That’s fair enough,” said Lem gratefully, and he pocketed the money that the stranger
tendered him.
    Our hero paid for the piece of fruit
that he had bought from the train boy and ate it with quiet contentment. In the
meantime, the “pawnbroker” prepared to get off the train. When he had gathered
together his meager luggage, he shook hands with Lem and gave him a receipt for the ring.
    But no sooner had the stranger left
than a squad of policemen armed with sawed-off shotguns entered and started
down the aisle. Lem watched their progress with great
interest. His interest, however, changed to alarm when they stopped at his seat
and one of them caught him roughly by the throat. Handcuffs were then snapped
around his wrists. Weapons pointed at his head.

 
7
     
    “ Begorra ,
we’ve got him,” said Sergeant Clancy, who was in charge of the police squad.
    “But I haven’t done anything,”
expostulated Lem , turning pale.
    “None of your lip, sweetheart,” said
the sergeant. “Will you go quietly or will you go quietly?” Before the poor lad
had a chance to express his willingness to go, the police officer struck him an
extremely hard blow on the head with his club.
    Lem slumped down in his seat and Sergeant Clancy ordered his men to carry the boy
off the train. A patrol wagon was waiting at the depot. Lem’s unconscious form was dumped into the “Black Maria” and the police drove to the
station house.
    When our hero regained consciousness
some hours later, he was lying on the stone floor of a cell. The room was full
of detectives and the air was foul with cigar smoke. Lem opened one eye, unwittingly giving the signal for the detectives to go into
action.
    “‘Fess up,” said Detective Grogan,
but before the boy could speak he kicked him in the stomach with his heavy
boot.
    “Faith now,” interfered Detective Reynolds, “give the lad a chance.” He bent over Lem’s prostrate form with a kind smile on his face and said, “Me lad, the jig is up.”
    “I’m innocent,” protested Lem . “I didn’t do anything.”
    “You stole a diamond ring and sold
it,” said another detective.
    “I did not,” replied Lem , with as much fire as he could muster under the
circumstances. “A pickpocket dropped it in my pocket and I pawned it with a
stranger for thirty dollars.”
    “Thirty dollars!” exclaimed
Detective Reynolds, his voice giving great evidence of disbelief. “Thirty dollars for a ring that cost more than a thousand. Me lad, it won’t wash.” So saying the detective drew back his foot and kicked poor Lem behind the ear even
harder than his colleague had done.
    Our hero lost consciousness again,
as was to be expected, and the detectives left his cell, having first made sure
that he was still alive.
    A few days later, Lem was brought to trial, but neither judge nor jury would
believe his story.
    Unfortunately, Stamford, the town in
which he had been arrested, was in the midst of a crime wave and both the
police and the judiciary were anxious to send people to jail. It also counted
heavily against him that