The Fairview constable was nonplussed.  Marco was right, and Wagner knew it.  He threshed about, fumed and threatened, and finally said: 

“All right.  I guess you know the law.  We may have no right to enter that tent without a local search warrant, but the minute we get the boy outside we can take him on sight.”

“You won’t have the chance,” observed Marco.

“We’ll see.  Hey,” to his two assistants, “keep a close watch.  I’m going for a local search warrant.  Don’t let Andy Wildwood leave that tent.  The minute he does, nab him.  Mister, I hereby notify you that these two men are my regularly appointed deputies.”

“All right,” nodded Marco calmly.

“Watch out, boys.  I won’t be gone half-an-hour.”

At that moment a waddling man came up smoking an immense pipe.

“Ha,” he said to Mr. Marco, “I vant mine drums.”

“Wait a minute, Snitzellbaum,” directed Marco.

Marco held the newcomer at bay until Wagner had disappeared in the direction of the town.

Then, leaning over, he whispered in the ear of the rotund musician.

“Ha! ho! hum! vhat? ho—­ho! ha—­ha!”

“Hush!” warned Marco, with a quick glance at the constable’s deputies patrolling up and down.  “Will you do it?”

“Vill I—­oh, schure!  Ha-ha! ho-ho!  Mister Marco, you are von chenyus.”

“Want your drum, eh?” spoke Marco in a loud tone.  “Well, go in and get it.”

Andy knew something was afoot from what he observed.  He hoped it was in the line of preventing his return to Fairview.

In about five minutes the fat German came out of the tent, lugging his big bass drum with him.

“I put him on dot vagon,” he puffed.  “Good night, Mr. Marco.  Vat dey do mit dot poy in dere, hey?”

“Oh, I’ll attend to him,” declared Marco.

Another half-hour went by.  At its end Wagner came hurrying up to the spot.  He had a companion with him, a keen-eyed, shrewd-faced fellow, evidently a local officer.

“I have a search warrant here,” said the latter.

“All right,” nodded Marco accommodatingly, “go on with your search.”

“Told you I’d get that boy,” announced Wagner, with a chuckle lifting the flap of the tent.  “Say!  How’s this?  Andy Wildwood is gone!”

CHAPTER XIII

ON THE ROAD

“Come oud!” said Hans Snitzellbaum.

“I’m glad to,” answered Andy Wildwood.

He took a long, refreshing draught of pure air, and stood up and stretched his cramped limbs with satisfaction.

When the Man with the Iron Jaw had whispered to the fat musician outside the dressing tent guarded by Wagner’s assistants, he had asked him to get Andy out of the clutches of the constable.

The fat sides of Hans Snitzellbaum shook with jollity, and his merry eye twinkled at the hint conveyed by Andy’s staunch friend.