Doors began to bang; a hundred pairs of boots thudded and jingled towards
Billy; the noise of voices rolled through the outer hall, poured through
the door, burst upon his ears. He looked up in mild surprise; the first
wave of Rickett's men had swept out of the courthouse to take the trail of
the fugitive or to watch the pursuit; in this second wave came the
remnants, the old men, the women; great-eyed children. In spite of their
noise of foot and voice they appeared to be trying to walk stealthily, talk
so softly. They leaned about his desk and questioned him with
gesticulations, but he only stared. They were all dim as dream people to
Billy the clerk, whose mind was far away struggling with his problem.
"Pore old Billy is kind of dazed," suggested a woman. "Don't bother him,
Bud. Look here!"
The tide of noise and faces broke on either side of the desk and swayed off
towards the inner office and vaguely Billy felt that they should not be
there--the sheriff's privacy--the thought almost drew him back to complete
consciousness, but he was borne off from them, again, on a wave of study,
pictures.
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