"I shall charge him with homicidal assault," she announced firmly.
"I hope you'll tell that to the sarge," the officer chuckled, his pique forgotten in appreciation of the girl's naïve announcement. "I'll take this chap to the station-house. You'll appear against him, miss?" The girl nodded emphatically. He turned on Zeke, frowning. "Come on quiet, young feller, if you know what's good for ye." His practiced eye studied the young mountaineer's physique respectfully.
Zeke made no movement, nor answered nor lifted his eyes. The policeman attributed this demeanor to recalcitrancy. He put the revolver in his pocket, drew his club and took a step forward. Yet, he sensed something unfamiliar in the situation; the stiff posture of the arms and hands of the culprit attracted his attention. He felt vaguely that something of a painful nature was toward. He stopped short, puzzled, and spoke: "What's the matter with ye, anyhow?" he demanded fiercely. "Hain't ye got any tongue?"
Then, at last, Zeke raised his eyes. They went first to the forward door, to make sure that the girl had vanished. There were only two mildly interested deck-hands in the cabin, beside the policeman, though soon the place would be filled with newly arriving passengers. He looked at the officer squarely, with despair in his expression: "Hit ain't my tongue--hit's my pants!" he said huskily. "Hit's the seat of my pants. Hit's--hit's thar!" He nodded toward the strip of jeans left on the floor by the dog.
The policeman stared at the fragment of cloth, then his gaze returned appreciatively to the victim's hands. He threw his head back and bellowed with laughter, echoed raucously by the deck-hands. Zeke waited grimly until the merriment lessened a little.
"I hain't a-stirrin' nary a step to no jail-house," was his morose announcement, "unless somebody gits me some pants with a seat to 'em."
The policeman liked his ease too well to fight needlessly, and he had an idea that the thews and sinews of the boomer might make a good account of themselves. Moreover, he was by way of being a kindly soul, and he apprehended in a measure the young man's misery.
"Can you dig up a pair of jumpers?" he asked the deck-hands. "You can have 'em back by calling at the station to-morrow."
In this manner, the difficulty was bridged. Clad in the dingy and dirty borrowed garment, the burning shame fell from Zeke, and he was once again his own man. Nevertheless, he avoided looking toward the piece of torn cloth lying on the floor, as he went out with the policeman. He only wished that he might with equal ease leave behind all memory of the lamentable episode.