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His face was very long, his eyes pouched, rather inclined to redness, which gave him the mien of a very old and very wise bloodhound. His almost yellow hair grew without much opposition from the barber, and he wore a derby hat of a decided green tinge.
Ferdinand P. Putney was the lawyer of Lost Hills town. The folks of Lost Hills were not given to carrying their troubles to the law; so one lawyer was enough. Ferdinand had been many things in his forty years of life, but that has nothing to do with the fact that he had studied lawÑa little.
And there was another rather prominent man in Lost Hills, whose name was Amos K. Weed. Amos was the cashier of the Lost Hills bank, mate of his own soul, (Ferdinand P. Putney was the captain) and a bottle-drinker after working hours.
Amos was a scrawny individual, five feet six inches tall, with a high, wide forehead, pinched nose, beady eyes and long, slender fingers. His shoulders were slightly stooped and he shuffled when he walked. AmosÕ life consisted mostly of looking up and down a column of figures.
But for many years Amos had dreamed of being a great criminal, a master mind; of smashing through things like a Springfield bullet. But his .22 caliber soul had held him back. Amos usually figured out a perfect crime, dreamed that he was about to be hung, and discarded the plan.
On this certain day Amos closed the bank at a few minutes after three oÕclock. He carried his hat in his hand, and his breathing was slightly irregular. He fairly slunk away from the bank, shuffling his feet softly, as though afraid his departure might be heard.
He covered the half-block to Ferdinand P. PutneyÕs office in record time, and found the lawyer at his desk, tilted back in a chair, his big feet atop a pile of dusty books on the desk. Amos slammed the door behind him and stood there, panting heavily. Ferdinand shifted his gaze from the book, which he had been reading, and looked reprovingly upon Amos.
