He was always visualizing the Hand whenever he let his gaze rest upon the horizon. Mac—the old gossip—knew about everything going on in that part of the world; and if Enschede was anything up to the picture the girl had drawn, McClintock would have heard of him, naturally. “I WILL be arrested! I WON’T go home!” the little old lady was screaming over and over again. Amidst it all, however, there were several light-hearted and laughing groups walking from cell to cell to whom all this misery appeared matter of amusement. I was—I was a corespondent. "How long shall I be here?" he asked. He rambled in an unfortunate monotone, the result of his innate fear of public speaking.
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