What kind of a government was it, he asked himself bitterly, that would leave a trusted agent twenty-four hours shut up in a cell with a whining crook like Jim Cassidy?
If, he added pessimistically, he were an agent of the government.

Casey doubted it.

So far as he could see, Casey Ryan wasn't anything but the goat.
His chief desire now was to get out of there as soon as possible so that he could hunt up Mack Nolan and lick the livin' tar wit of him--or worse.

He wanted bail and he wanted it immediately.

Not a soul bad come near him, save the trusty, in spite of certain mysterious messages which Casey had sent to the office, asking for an interview with the judge or somebody; Casey didn't care who.