Shock Treatment

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All this I am to tell you about could probably never have happened in any other town except Glyn Camp.

Situated in the Californian hill district, Glyn Camp is one of those tiny Rip van Winkle summer resorts where writers, artists and those on pension make their homes in the peace and beauty of a district not all that far from the fun and games of the Pacific Coast.

I rented a reasonably comfortable cabin up in this district, and from the cabin, I ran a radio and television sales and service organization.

By road, my cabin was four miles from Glyn Camp, and once a week I drove into town to get my groceries, and then I would go along to Sheriff Jefferson’s office for a talk and a shot of his apple-jack which he manufactured himself.

Sheriff Jefferson has an important part in this story so I’d better say something about him now. He had been sheriff of Glyn Camp for the best part of fifty years. No one knew exactly how old he was, but it was agreed by those who had lived longest in the town that he was over eighty. He knew, and the town knew, that he was beyond his job, but that didn’t prevent the town electing him sheriff again when election time came around nor did it prevent him from taking on the new term. Glyn Camp without Sheriff Jefferson was as unthinkable as New York without the Statue of Liberty.

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