Front matter (continued 3)

"Did the police have any trouble with Abner?" Whittles asked almost breathlessly.

"No, I guess not. He went like a lamb, though Tom said he had a wild look in his eyes."

Whittles suddenly gasped; his face turned deathly pale, and his hands trembled.

"What's wrong, Hen?" the lawyer asked, noting his companion's agitation. "I didn't know you were subject to nervous trouble. This story has upset you a bit. You need a stimulant. Why in thunder doesn't that express team show up!"

"Say, Tom," and Whittles leaned over the table, "suppose it had been you or me instead of Joe?"

"You or me! What do you mean?"

"Abner loves us about as much as he loved Joe this morning, doesn't he?"

"Oh, I see," and the lawyer rubbed his chin in a thoughtful manner. "I never thought of that."

"I know you didn't. Now, suppose Abner gets out of jail and learns who gave Joe that information, what then?"

Rackshaw shifted somewhat uneasily in his chair, and glanced down at the dog. Then he laughed and picked up the cards he had dropped upon the table.

"I guess Abner won't do any more of his wild stunts for a while," he remarked. "He's in deep enough water now. He'll need a lawyer to defend him, and I'm the only one in town."

"He won't come to you."

"Just you wait. He's in a trap and knows very well that I can get him out; that is, if I want to."

"Want to! Won't you want to get him out? Won't you do everything for him that you can if he engages you to defend him?"

"That all depends. If he comes to me I'll do all I can under certain conditions."

"What are the conditions?"

The lawyer bit savagely at his cigar, but offered no explanation.

"D—n that express team!" he growled. "What can have happened to it?"

"Abner can't afford to engage a lawyer, can he?" Whittles asked, noting Rackshaw's silence.

"Why not?"

"He hasn't any way of paying, has he?"

"He hasn't? What about his farm?"

"Farm! Why, that's nothing but a bed of gravel. I wouldn't have it as a gift."

"You wouldn't, eh? But suppose the Government should want that same bed of gravel for ballast, what then?"

Whittles' eyes opened wide, and he looked enquiringly at the lawyer. Light was beginning to dawn upon his mind.

"Oh, I see your game, now," he at length replied. "You hope to get the farm, and turn it over to the Government?"

"Yes, that's just what I expect to do."

"But you'll never do it."

"I won't? And why not?"

"Abner'll not engage you to defend him. He has little use for you, and you should know by this time what a cranky cuss he is."

"Well, if he won't engage me, I shall take up Joe's case."

"Do what?"

"Didn't you hear what I said? I'll defend Joe."

"But how can you? You love Joe about as much as you do Abner."

"H'm, that's all right. Joe doesn't know what I think of him. And I guess you've got to learn a few things yet, Hen. You're not as sharp as I thought you were. But, say, here's the express team, now."

The next instant the door was pushed open, and a fair-sized box was handed to the lawyer.

"What do you mean by being so late?" the latter demanded of the expressman.

"Couldn't help it, sir," was the reply. "I'm all mixed up to-night. There's only one team on the road."

Rackshaw carried the box to the table, cut the strings, and tore away the paper wrapping. Then he turned to his desk and produced a hammer.

"Down, Pedro," he ordered, as the dog began to sniff excitedly at the box. "Surely you're not thirsty, too."

"Following his master's example, eh?" Whittles smilingly queried. "Queer box, that."

"Queer! I should say so," the lawyer growled, as he began to pry up the cover. "I never got a box like this before. Down, Pedro, I say. What's the matter with the dog, anyway? He's half crazy."

Scarcely had he finished speaking when a portion of the cover came off, and at once a big gray rat leaped full into the lawyer's startled face. With a yell of fright Rackshaw let go the box, dropped the hammer, and staggered back. Trying to recover himself, he came into sudden contact with the dog and was hurled over a chair full length upon the floor. He endeavored to get up, and had reached a sitting position when Pedro again landed on him like a catapult. Had a cyclone burst upon that room the confusion could not have been more appalling. Frantic squeals of terrified rats and the snapping yelps of the pursuing dog mingled with the crash of falling chairs and tables. It was, as the lawyer afterwards expressed it, "hell let loose."

When Rackshaw was at length able to crawl to his knees he looked around the disordered room. Pedro was still cavorting here and there, first after one rat and then another. Whittles was nowhere to be seen.

"Hen, where are you?" the lawyer called.

A groan from beneath one of the tables was the only response.

"Are you hurt, Hen?"

"Dying," was the feeble reply. "For God's sake, call off that dog!"

To "call off the dog" was easier to order than to do. Rackshaw staggered to his feet, and shouted wildly to the excited brute. But the louder he called, and the more furiously he swore, the more frantic did the greyhound become. The rats had turned his brain, and he was a crazy fool. Around and around the room he dashed, clearing chairs and tables with great bounds, but not a rat could he catch.

Rackshaw started for the door. If he could get it open it would give the rats an avenue of escape. He was but part way across the room when Pedro, attempting to pass through the legs of an overturned chair, stuck fast. With a howl he tried to extricate himself, but in vain. He had now something more than rats to think of, and furiously he threshed from side to side, breaking chairs, and damaging everything with which he came into contact.

The lawyer was now desperate. The perspiration poured down his face, while the shouts and curses he hurled at the dog were of no avail. With a savage yank he tore open the door, and the dog, catching sight of the opening, bounded for it like a tank going into battle.

It so happened that just at this critical moment the expressman had stepped to the door, carrying in his hands the long-expected box which he had overlooked. He saw the grotesque object bounding toward him, and before he had time to move aside, Pedro, now dragging the battered chair, dashed full upon him. With a yell of terror, he fell backwards, dropping as he did so the precious box upon the pavement. There was a sudden crash of bottles, and a liberal flow of spirits such as the town had never before known.

Half dazed, the expressman sat upon the sidewalk, and viewed the shattered box lying in the path of light from the open door. The lawyer approached and stood over the bewildered man.

"What's the meaning of all this?" he demanded.

"Meaning!" the man replied, rubbing his bruised right shoulder. "Why do you ask me? What's on here to-night, anyway? A menagerie, or a wild-west show?"

"Get up, and explain why you brought that box of rats here," Rackshaw ordered, ignoring the other's question.

"Rats! Brought rats here! I don't understand."

"Yes, rats. That first box you brought was full of rats; big rats, gray rats and all kinds of rats. They've turned hell loose in there."

"Good Lord!" the expressman gasped, as he leaned over to obtain a better view of the office. "Did the rats do that?"

"Indeed they did."

"And was that one of them that knocked me down?"

"Get up," Rackshaw commanded. "What's the matter with you? Did you ever see a rat the size of that? Don't you know a dog when you see it?"

"A dog! Good heavens! But you said something about rats."

"So I did, and you should know something about them, too. You left a box here full of rats, and when I opened it the devils came out and turned my dog's brain. Look at that room there. Isn't it a great mess? Somebody'll have a nice bill to pay. Where in h—l did you get that box, anyway?"

"Where I got the rest, of course. I didn't know it was full of rats. But that wouldn't have made any difference. It's not my business to know what the things are which I deliver. Guess you'll have to enquire elsewhere."

The expressman rose slowly to his feet, and again rubbed his shoulder.

"Darn it!" he growled. "I'm going to sue for damages, see if I don't. If a man can't attend to his business without being half-killed by a mad dog, with a pile of furniture on his back, it's a strange thing."

Rackshaw stood and watched him as he climbed up into his waggon, and drove off, grumbling and vowing vengeance upon everybody in general. Then he turned and re-entered the building. He found Whittles sitting on the floor, propped up against the office desk. His hair and clothes were dishevelled, and his face was expressive of his deep misery.

"Oh, you've come back, have you?" he meaningly queried.

"Sure. Did you think I had run away?"

"I couldn't tell. I don't know what to expect next. Is that raging devil gone yet?"

"What, the dog?"

"Yes."

"And the rats? Oh!" Whittles' body shivered.

"I guess they've gone, too. I don't see any of them. But get up and act like a man."

"I'm nearly dead," Whittles wailed. "I'm sure I'll never get over this. I'm all shaken to pieces, and I believe some of my bones are broken."

"Nonsense," the lawyer chided. "Get up, I say, and don't be a fool."

"Give me a drop to steady my nerves," Whittles implored. "The expressman brought the stuff at last, didn't he?"

"You'll have to lick it up off the sidewalk, then."

"What! Was it all lost? Wasn't there a little saved?"

"Not a drop. But get up. You're head's turned topsy-turvy."

"And everything else as far as I can see. Look at the mess this room is in. Isn't it a fright! Where do you suppose the rats came from?"

The lawyer made no reply, but picked up the box lying upon the floor, and examined it carefully. Inside he found a small thin piece of wood containing the following scrawl:

"These are country rats. What do you think of them?"

He stood for a few seconds, staring at these words. Then the light of understanding flashed upon his mind, and with an oath he tossed the chip to Whittles.

"Read that," he ordered. "It will explain matters."

A puzzled expression overspread Whittles' face as he read the writing.

"Don't you understand it?" Rackshaw asked.

"Blamed if I do," and Whittles scratched his head, as he again studied the words. "Who would want to send rats to you, of all men?"

"Wouldn't the man who got my 'city rats'?"

"What, not Abner Andrews!"

"And why not?"

"Sure, sure; I might have known."

"Known what?"

"That you couldn't get ahead of him. He'll get more than even every time. It's the touch of Abner, all right. You might have known what a dangerous cuss he is, the old devil. Rats! Well, I declare! Ugh!"

CHAPTER XVI

IN THE KLINK

The police court room of Glucom was seldom a busy place, and as a rule the police magistrate had little to do. A few drunks generally made up the list for the week, with an occasional family "affair" to add a little spice of excitement. It was, therefore, a welcome relief to the monotony when Abner Andrews was brought into court, and charged with assault upon the Editor of The Live Wire.

Abner felt keenly the position in which he was placed as he stood in the dock and listened to the words of the sergeant who had arrested him. He realized how serious was the nature of the charge against him, and he clutched the rail of the dock firmly with both hands and carefully studied the face of the magistrate. He did not regret what he had done, neither was he much concerned about himself. It was of those at home he thought, for he knew how badly they would feel, and how they would worry when they heard of his arrest. He was anxious, too, about his wife. He surmised that something unusual had happened to her, otherwise that scurrilous article would not have appeared in the paper.

"You have heard the charge, Mr. Andrews?" It was the magistrate now speaking. "Do you plead 'Guilty' or 'Not Guilty'?"

"Not guilty, ye'r Honor," was the prompt reply.

"Not guilty!" the magistrate repeated in surprise. "Why do you say that? Didn't you make an assault upon Joseph Preston this morning?"

"Ye bet I did, and gave him a lickin' he won't fergit to the end of his days."

"Well, then, if you acknowledge all that, why do you plead 'Not guilty'?"

"But I'm not guilty. I don't feel one bit guilty. My conscience doesn't bother me any more'n if I'd beat up a skunk that was after my chickens. Joe got jist what was comin' to him. Somebody had to do it sooner or later, and that's all there is about it."

If it had been anyone else than Aimer Andrews the magistrate would have remanded him at once. But in truth he felt a certain sympathy for the prisoner, as he well knew that Joe Preston had merely received a just punishment. He himself had often mentally vowed vengeance upon the editor for his mean attacks upon him as police magistrate. But he had the dignity of his position to maintain, and it would not do for him to give expression to his feelings, especially in the court room, of all places.

"Did you not take a mean advantage of Mr. Preston?" he presently asked. "You gave him no chance, so I understand, but sprang upon him and hit him while he was sitting at his desk. Wasn't that rather a mean thing to do?"

"Mean! Isn't there different ways of hittin', ye'r Honor? Some hit with their eyes, an' some with their tongues. But Joe Preston hits with that dirty sheet of his."

"And you hit with your fists, eh?"

"I sartinly do when it's necessary."

"They get you into a lot of trouble, don't they?"

"Mebbe so. But they save me from a darn lot of trouble, too. I'm nat'rally a man of peace, an' mind me own bizness, but when a critter like Joe Preston hits me a mean, nasty cut below the belt, well, he won't do it no more. It saves one from doin' it to others, that's all."

The magistrate stroked his chin as he thoughtfully mused for a few seconds. He was thinking of a story he would have to tell his wife when he went home to dinner.

"But why did you take matters into your own hands?" he asked. "You might have brought in an action for libel and receive damages."

"Receive damages! Good Lord! That's what I was afraid of. If I'd gone to law with Joe Preston I wouldn't have had a ghost of a chance, an' you know it. So that's why I was anxious fer Joe to receive all the damages straight from my shoulder, an' with my special compliments. He's welcome to sich damages, an' I guess they're the only kind he understands."

"Perhaps your damages are yet to come," was the magistrate's reminder. "Mr. Preston is not likely to forget the injuries he has received, that is, providing he recovers."

A startled expression came into Abner's eyes at these words.

"Won't he recover?" he asked. "He's not as bad as that, is he?"

"The doctors are not certain, so I understand. Preston received a nasty blow on the head when he fell against the desk. If he doesn't get better it will go hard with you. But there, I guess that is all for to-day. I shall have to remand you. I am sorry, but I cannot help it."

"Surely ye'r not goin' to send me back to that hole agin, are ye?" Abner anxiously asked. "Why it's not a fit place fer a dog, let alone a human bein'. There's a drunken brute in the cell next to mine who's cuttin' up pretty lively."

"I can't help it, Mr. Andrews. You'll have to stay there unless you get someone to bail you out."

"Bail me out! Good heavens! De ye think I'm a leaky old boat, or a tub, an' need to be baled out?"

"It's not that kind I mean," the magistrate explained. He would have another good story to tell his wife.

"Well, then, ye must think I've got water on the brain, or I'm a bloomin' watered-stock company."

"I guess you know what I mean," and the magistrate smiled. "You're not so thick-headed as you try to make out."

"I ought to be pretty thick-headed, ye'r Honor. Wouldn't anyone be that way with more'n a dozen heads on his shoulders?"

"A dozen heads!"

"Sure. Sometimes I'm Abner Andrews, of Ash Pint, an' agin I'm old Baron Rothschild, the Dook of Wellington, or some other guy. I guess I was the Dook all right when I walked over Joe Preston, though now I feel like old Boney Part when he was on that Island."

The magistrate looked curiously at the prisoner.

"Don't you often get mixed up?" he asked.

"Should say so. I'm never jist sure who I am. It gives me a lot of trouble."

"Well, if that's the way you feel, Mr. Andrews, I think the proper place for you to be is the lunatic asylum and not here. Anyway, we've got you now, and so must keep you for a while. Sergeant, you may take the prisoner down," he added, turning to the officer who had been standing quietly by during this interview.

During the rest of the morning Abner paced up and down the room adjoining his cell. He knew very well how people would regard his imprisonment and how most of them would say it served him right. He wondered how long he would have to stay in that hole. He had not the remotest hope of getting out on bail, for he knew of no one interested in his welfare who was able to put up the money whatever it might be. He thought, too, of Joe Preston. Suppose the man should die, what then? He would be tried for murder, perhaps convicted, and he would be either hung or given a life-sentence in the penitentiary. The perspiration stood out in beads on his forehead as he thought of this, and it was a relief when the jailer brought him his dinner of bread and water.

"Is that the best this hotel kin afford?" he demanded, as he took the mean meal.

"Hotel! This is no hotel," was the curt reply. "This is the Klink, and that's the food fer birds that come here. It's more'n they deserve, too."

Abner stepped up close to, the iron grate, and looked fiercely at the jailor.

"De ye know who I am?" he roared.

"H'm, I have a pretty good idea."

"Ye think ye do, ye old goat. But I guess ye'r mistaken. I'm a public benefactor, that's what I am."

"A public benefactor!"

"Sure. I did what many in this town were too cowardly to do. I gave Joe Preston the lickin' he desarved, an' this is the way I'm treated fer it. I can't eat this dry stuff. Hurry up an' bring me a piece of roast chicken, with all the fixin's an' some plum puddin', an' don't fergit the cigars, either. Them's the things fer a public benefactor."

Abner chuckled to himself as the jailor ambled away.

"They'll think I'm luney, fer sure, the magistrate, an' the hull dang bunch, an' mebbe they'll not be fer astray. What's the use of bein' a public benefactor if ye've got to eat this stuff?" He glanced at the bread he was holding in his hands. "Ugh! What trash! Heavy as lead, soggy, an' sure death. Well, I'm not goin' to commit suicide yit a while. The rats kin if they want to."

Tossing the bread into a corner of the room, he went into his narrow cell, and stretched himself out upon his hard rough cot.

"Might as well take life easy," he soliloquized. "What's the use of worryin', anyway. Guess a nap'll do me good."

He had no intention of sleeping and was quite surprised when he at length opened his eyes and saw a young man standing by his side.

"Where in h—l am I?" the visitor unceremoniously asked.

Abner looked curiously at the man without replying. He noted his bloodshot eyes, unshaven, haggard face, unkempt hair, and dirty, dishevelled clothes.

"Are you deaf?" the fellow demanded. "Didn't you hear what I said?"

"Oh, yes, I heard, all right," Abner drawled. "But I was merely tryin' to figger out what part of the hot place you've jist come from."

The wild-eyed youth emitted a hoarse mirthless laugh. "I certainly have come from a hot place, the hottest I ever struck."

"Well, ye don't tell! Ye sartinly look it. Run up aginst somethin' pretty hard, eh?"

"Should say so. Greatest ever. A hen, a real livin' hen in the shape of a woman; that's what it was."

"My, my," Abner commented, now becoming much interested. "An' de ye consider ye'rself a man to be knocked out by sich a critter?"

"But you should have seen her. My G—d, it was awful! When she caught me by the hair with both hands, and pulled with all her might, I was sure my neck would be broken or my head would come off.

"That sartinly was some doin's, young man."

"Indeed it was, ye bet ye'r boots. And when she added her blood-curdling screeches to her claws, I thought for sure a whole bunch of wild cats was on my back."

"Look here, young man," Abner remarked, rousing to a sitting position. "You've had the D.T.'s; that's what's wrong with you. Guess ye've been seein' things."

"But it's Gospel truth, I tell you," the other insisted. "It was only last night, when I was taking a joy-ride in Dimock's car that it happened. I only meant a little fun at the old hen's expense, but, Lord! it proved the other way round."

The mention of Dimock's car made Abner fully alert, and in an instant he surmised that this was the chauffeur who had run away with his wife. His first feeling was one of anger, accompanied by a strong impulse to give the fellow a threshing. He banished this idea, however, as another method of punishment flashed upon his mind.

"So ye got more'n ye looked fer, eh?" he at length queried.

"Should say so. I didn't expect to find such a wild cat in that old hen."

"Easy, go easy there," Abner warned, as he slowly doubled up his fists. "Leave out all sich flourishes. They ain't becomin' when ye'r speakin' of a woman. Mebbe she's somebody's wife an' mother."

"I pity them, then, whoever they are," the young man replied. "Why, that she-devil ought to be put in a cage and placed on exhibition. When the car went into the ditch, because I couldn't see to steer, she bounded out like a rocket, seized a stick, and flew upon me like a whirlwind. My head and body are black and blue from her blows. It's a wonder I'm alive to tell the story."

"It sartinly is, young man, it sartinly is," Abner assented. "Ye'r lucky to be alive, though perhaps it'd have been better if she'd finished ye outright."

"I almost wish she had," was the mournful agreement. "I'm sick, nearly dead, and in jail, as far as I can see."

"Oh, cheer up, young man, ye'r troubles are jist beginnin'. The worst is yit to come. Ye'r in jail, all right, an' most likely ye'll stay here fer some time. But that ain't the worst that's comin' to ye."

"What do you mean?" and a look of fear came into the chauffeur's eyes.

"Oh, you'll find out later when the Queen of Sheby brings in damages. Then ye'll squirm, let me tell ye that."

"The Queen of Sheby! Who in the devil is she?"

"Why, the woman ye took fer a joy-ride last night. Ye see, she doesn't know much about autos. She's used to travellin' on camels, so I believe, an' they didn't go so fast."

"Travel on camels!" the other gasped.

"Sure. She travelled over hundreds of miles on them hump-backed critters to see old King Solomon several thousand years ago."

"Say, what are you giving me?" the chauffeur demanded. "Do you think I'm a fool? That wild cat is no queen and never was. She's the wife of Abner Andrews, a queer cuss, so I've heard, who lives at Ash Point. Do you know him?"

"Y'bet I do. Better'n his own brother. I've known him fer several thousand years."

The chauffeur did not reply, but stood staring at the man before him. He was trying to make out whether he was a fool or a madman.

"Yes," Abner continued, enjoying the other's astonishment. "I knew that old feller well when he was rich old Baron Rothschild, the Dook of Wellington, old Boney Part, an' the husband of the Queen of Sheby."

The chauffeur was now certain that Abner was making fun of him, and he was in no mood for any pleasantries.

"You must be a pretty old bird yourself," he retorted, "if you knew all of those guys. It's no wonder you've lost your brains, that is, if you ever had any. Who the devil are you, anyway?"

"Me? Oh, it doesn't matter much who I am. But if ye want to know, I'll tell ye as a great secret that I'm the Queen of Sheby's husband."

"The devil!"

"No, I ain't his Satanic majesty. I'm jist the Queen of Sheby's husband. She's allus ruled me, ye see, an' kept me to black her boots, button up her dress, an' do sich odd jobs that husbands are generally called upon to do. I have allus done as she said except that time several thousand years ago when she started to pay a visit to King Solomon. She had heard of his wisdom, an' thought she'd like to see him, an' hear some of his wise sayin's. But, my lands, when I bucked up, an' said she couldn't go, she landed upon me jist like she did upon you last night. I had to be put to bed, rubbed with palm-olive oil, an' fed like a baby fer a hull month. By the time I was able to set up the Queen was somewheres out in the desert on her way to the wise old king. I kin sartinly sympathize with you, young feller, fer I've been there meself, an' know what the Queen of Sheby is like when she gits roused."

"Look here," the chauffeur demanded, "are you kidding me or are you a blooming fool? I can't see any connection between that old queen and the creature that landed on me last night." He paused and a sudden look of fear leaped into his eyes. "Say," he gasped, "surely you're not Abner Andrews, are you?"

"I am an' I ain't. I was an' I isn't, so there ye are. Now kin ye jist tell me who I am, anyway?"

But the chauffeur did not wait to reply. He had retreated, and was out in the adjoining room when Abner had finished.

"Don't be skeered, young man," the latter remarked. "Ye can't run very fer in this hole, anyway, an' I kin ketch ye whenever I want ye."

"Oh, Lord!" the unhappy chauffeur groaned. "It's her husband, and he's crazy! What am I to do?"

"Hold ye'r tongue, that's what ye kin do," Abner roared. "De ye think I'm goin' to kill ye right off? That'd be too good fer the likes of you. Come in here an' set down, an' tell me why ye ran off with my queen."

"Your queen! Good heavens! Why didn't you tell me she belonged to you? Are you sure you're not crazy?"

"I will be soon if ye don't stop ye'r gab and set down. There, that's better," he continued, when the other had perched himself gingerly upon the edge of the cot. "Now, look here, young feller, I want to know why ye chose my queen fer ye'r joy-ride last night? It wasn't fer her beauty, or attractive manner, was it?"

"Oh, Jerusalem, no!"

"Well, why was it? Out with it."

But the young man held down his head, and made no reply. Abner studied him for a few minutes in silence.

"Did somebody put ye up to that job?" he presently enquired. "Don't be afraid to tell me. But if ye don't, I'll be as tender with ye as a cat with a mouse. Somebody set ye on, didn't he?"

"Yes," the chauffeur finally blurted out.

"Ah, I thought so. We're gittin' on nicely now with our little teeter game, you at one end, me at the other, an' someone in the middle. Now, who was that someone?"

"It was Lawyer Rackshaw; that's who it was."

"H'm, I guessed as much. I s'pose he paid ye fer the job?"

"Yes; money and whiskey."

"Ho, ho, money an' whiskey, eh? Well, I declare! An' all fer the sake of givin' the Queen of Sheby a joy-ride. He was sartinly kind. I wish he'd been along too."

"So do I, the mean devil. He got me into the fix, and he'll snap his fingers at me now."

"Will he?"

"Certainly. That's the kind he is."

"But can't you do somethin'?"

"Do! What can I do?"

"Swear to what ye've jist told me."

"Oh, yes, I'll swear to that at any old time. But what good will it do?"

"It might do ye a lot of good, an' me too."

"You!"

"Sure. I'm in this hole fer bein' a public benefactor, an' if you'll jist swear to what ye've told me, it might help us both out, see?"

"Have you something against Rackshaw?"

"Yes, a few things, more or less."

"Then I'll swear. But say, you'll not do anything to me for giving your wife that joy-ride last night, will you?"

"No, no, that's all right, now that I know who put ye up to it. But look here, young feller, take an old man's advice and let whiskey alone after this. It's put a good many more chaps than you in the ditch when they were joy-ridin' with women. Yes, whiskey an' women have sartinly got many a fine bright chap into trouble, as ye know from experience. Women ain't allus what they seem, an' it's hard sometimes to tell the difference between the Queen of Sheby an' Tildy Andrews, of Ash Pint."

CHAPTER XVII

FRIENDLY ADVICE

It seemed to Abner that all his friends had forsaken him. He paced up and down the room outside his cell most of the evening. The chauffeur was asleep, and his deep breathing was the only sound which broke the intense stillness which prevailed. The nap he had taken that afternoon drove all sleep from Abner's eyes. In fact, he could not have slept, anyway, as the story the chauffeur had told gave him food for much thought. So Rackshaw was at the bottom of it all, he mused. He had surmised as much, but he had no means of proving it until he had heard it from the lips of the wild-eyed youth. Perhaps the lawyer was responsible, too, for the article in The Live Wire. How could the editor have obtained the information unless someone had communicated with him? The police, of course, could have done so, but they would not have twisted the story beyond all semblance of reality. He felt that Joe Preston was guilty, and deserved all that he had received. But was Rackshaw in league with him?

He was lost in such thoughts when he heard the jailor's approaching footsteps. The man was coming, no doubt, to lock him in his cell for the night. The thought of being confined in that narrow stuffy place for long hours angered him, so when he heard the key rattle in the lock he was in a most dangerous frame of mind. Accustomed as he was from childhood to unbounded freedom, and an abundance of fresh air, this close confinement in such poorly-ventilated quarters was most galling. He had started to walk back to the other end of the room as the key turned in the lock. He could hardly trust himself then, and he needed a few seconds to calm his feelings.

As the door swung open the jailor called to him, and demanded why he was running away. Fiercely Abner wheeled around, but the words of wrath which were glowing hot on his tongue suddenly cooled when he beheld Zeb Burns standing before him. For an instant he stood as if he had seen an apparition, staring hard at his neighbor. Zeb saw the look of astonishment, and the faint semblance of a smile lurked about the corners of his mouth.

"What's the matter, Abner?" he asked. "Ye look scared."

"So I am."

"What about?"

"You."

"Me! Why are you scared about me?"

"What have ye been doin', Zeb?"

"Doin'! What de ye mean?"

"But why are ye here? Have they got you, too?"

"Ho, ho, I see," and Burns laughed outright. "Ye think that because you're in the Klink everybody else is headin' the same way. But I guess there are a few sensible people left yit in the world, which is a mighty lucky thing."

"An' they're not goin' to lock you up too?" Abner asked in surprise. "Ye haven't been beatin' anybody up, eh?"

"Certainly not. What's the matter with ye, anyway, Abner? I'm here to take you out of this hole, so git a hustle on an' come with me at once. There now, never mind talkin'," he added. "We've got lots of time fer that later. I want to git away."

Like a child Abner followed Zeb out of the jail, and not until they had reached the street did he open his lips. Then he stopped, looked around, and drew in a long, deep breath of fresh air.

"My, that feels good!" he exclaimed. "The Lord never meant a man to be shut up in a place like that."

"I know he didn't," Zeb replied. "Neither did He intend that a man in his common sense should act the fool."

"De ye think I have?" Abner demanded.

"It looks very much like it. But, let's hurry up. I guess the judge will settle whether you are a fool or a lunatic, so it's no use fer us to spend our time arguin' about it."

"Where are ye goin'?" Abner asked.

"Home, of course. Where else would we go?"

"Did ye walk to town, Zeb?"

"Sure; I've no other means of conveyance, have I?"

"An' ye're goin' to walk home?"

"Guess so from present appearance."

"But Jerry's here," Abner explained. "Sam must know where he is."

"That's good. We'll hustle there at once an' git the old nag."

They moved rapidly along the street leading to the railway station. This route led them by Rackshaw's office, and as they were about to pass they glanced in at the open door. The sight which met their eyes filled them with astonishment, causing them to stop and look into the room. To Zeb the scene of chaos was puzzling, but Abner surmised the cause in an instant. His face brightened, and his mouth expanded into a grin when he saw Whittles upon the floor and the lawyer standing before the box.

"Evenin', gentlemen," he accosted, "an' may the Lord fergive me fer miscallin' yez. Havin' a pink tea, eh?"

Rackshaw stood staring at Abner as if he could not believe his eyes.

"Good Lord!" he ejaculated. "Are you that devil, Andrews, or his ghost? I thought you were in jail."

"H'm," Abner sniffed. "I'm St. Peter now. This is me angel in the shape of Zeb Burns, who came to-night an' brought me out of prison. Look's to me as if you an' Hen have been holdin' a prayer meetin'. Guess ye'r prayers must have been answered, fer here I be."

"You're no saint," Rackshaw roared. "You're Beelzebub, the prince of devils; that's who you are. What did you mean by sending me those rats?"

"Rats!" and again Abner grinned. "Oh, I see," and his eyes surveyed the room. "Country rats, eh?"

"Indeed, they were," was the emphatic reply. "And look what they've done to my office. You'll have a nice sum to pay for all this damage."

"Me! Me pay?"

"Yes, you I mean!" the lawyer yelled, now fairly beside himself. "You are the cause of all this, an' I'll skin you alive, see if I don't, you miserable devil."

The grin vanished from Abner's face, his form suddenly straightened, and his eyes blazed. Walking slowly across the room, he stood before the angry lawyer.

"Jist say them words agin," he warned, in that drawling tone which betokened danger. "If ye're thinkin' of skinnin' me alive, as no doubt ye'll try to do, I might as well have my full satisfaction now. I'm in deep water as it is over Joe Preston, an' I feel jist in the mood to have another scalp scored to my credit. Another skunk like you won't make much difference, so jist say them words agin, will ye?"

Rackshaw was in a trap and knew it. His body shook and his eyes blazed fire. But he was an arrant coward, and the huge form bulked very large before him just then. He knew that Abner would not hesitate to deal with him as he had with Joe Preston, and he did not relish the thought of going to the hospital for repairs. As the two men thus faced each other, Zeb approached and laid a firm hand upon Abner's arm.

"Come along out of this," he commanded. "You're in enough trouble now. Don't be a fool. I'm losin' faith in this ancestor business of yours. St. Peter never acted like you're actin' to-night."

For an instant only Abner hesitated. He did long to give the lawyer something that was coming to him. But he knew that Zeb was right, and he followed him to the door. He couldn't refrain, however, from giving a parting shot ere he left.

"Don't fergit, Rackshaw," he reminded, "that country rats are not to be fooled with, no matter whether they walk on four legs or two. Keep ye'r city rats where they belong, and let them mind their own bizn'ess, an' ye'll have no trouble with country rats."

"Fer heaven's sake, hold ye'r tongue, an' come along," Zeb ordered. "I'm sick an' tired of all this confounded fuss."

"But would ye put up with sass from a thing like that?" Abner asked. "I wish I had punched his head."

"It's lucky ye didn't."

"Why?"

"You ought to know as well as I do. What kin you do aginst a lawyer? He'll make it hot fer you as it is. I don't know what's comin' over ye, Abner. I always knew that you were a queer critter, but I thought ye had some brains left."

For a wonder Abner made no reply, but walked along silently until the station house was reached. It was locked, and Sam was nowhere to be found. Upon enquiry from a man who was standing upon the platform, they learned that the agent had gone to a party out in the country, and had taken Jerry with him.

"Confound that feller!" Abner growled. "What right has he to run off with my hoss, I'd like to know?"

"He looked after him, though, when you were in the pen, didn't he?" Zeb queried.

"Sure, sure he did, an' I s'pose I must fergive him."

"Now you're beginnin' to talk like a reasonable man, Abner. It's the first sensible thing I've heard ye say to-night. But we've got to git home, so I guess there's nothin' else to do but to foot it. What de ye say?"

"I'm game, so let's git on."

They made their way through the town, and when they were at last out into the country, they filled and lighted their pipes as they trudged along. So far little had been said, but the soothing effect of the tobacco seemed to make them more communicable, and they discussed the affairs of the evening. Abner was unusually fierce in his denunciation of everything in general. He believed that he had been unjustly treated, and he longed for suitable retaliation. Zeb listened to him for some time without arguing. He knew that Abner must unburden his soul before he could feel better. At length, however, he stopped and laid his hand upon his companion's sleeve.

"Look here, Abner," he solemnly began, "I don't like ye to talk that way. It doesn't do any good."

"But it does me a lot of good to blow off steam," Abner retorted.

"Yes, mebbe it does. But remember, there's a great difference between blowin' off steam and bustin' ye'r biler, an' that's what you're in danger of doin'."

"But de ye think I'm goin' to put up with a hull bunch of rogues who are tryin' to down me?"

"An' ye'r helpin' them with ye'r actions, ain't ye?"

"What else am I to do? They'll walk over me rough shod if I don't put up a fight. If ye run away from a little snappin' cur he'll run after ye, an' bite ye'r heels, an' bark like mad. But turn around, face the critter, an' give it a good kick, an' then ye'll see how it'll scoot away with its tail between its legs."

"But suppose it isn't a cur, Abner, but a big bulldog, what then?"

"Why, I'd use a stick, or mebbe somethin' else."

"Yes, that's jist it. You'd do somethin' that ye'd regret all ye're life. Now, look here. You've got to stop all this. What you need is a change of heart."

"Change of heart!" Abner repeated. "Good Lord, what de ye mean by that? Ye haven't been attendin' a revival meetin', have ye, Zeb?"

"No, I haven't, an' don't intend to. But common sense tells me that a man won't accomplish much in this world when he is always rubbin' people the wrong way. Even a cat won't stand it fer long."

"The way I rubbed Rackshaw, Ikey Dimock an' Joe Preston, eh?" Abner asked.

"That's what I mean. It makes the sparks fly, an' soon there's a big fire which is hard to put out."

"What de ye expect me to do, then?"

"Rub people the other way, fer instance, and see how it'll work."

"Ho, ho," and Abner laughed outright. "Imagine me rubbin' Ikey Dimock an' Rackshaw, an' pattin' 'em on the back an' callin' 'em 'me dear friends.' No, I guess I'm too old a bird fer that. Never had the trainin', ye see. Anyway, it's no use now; it's too late. Everybody's dead set aginst me, an' is tryin' to do me."

"Everybody is not, Abner. I'm not, anyway, or else I wouldn't have taken all the trouble to walk to town to git ye out of jail."

"Sure, sure, I know you'd stand by me, Zeb. But, say, how did ye do it?"

"Do what?"

"Git me out of jail, of course."

"Oh, bailed ye out, that was all."

"But where did ye git the money?"

"Never mind where I got it. That's my own business, so don't say anythin' more about it."

Abner was silent for a few minutes as he plodded along.

"Say," he presently began, "does Tildy an' the gals know about this?"

"Can't say fer sure," was the reply. "But I don't believe they do. I jist heard of it by chance, but I never said a word to ye'r folks."

"That's good of ye, Zeb." And once more Abner became silent.

The night was dark, and when the men were about a mile from their homes it began to rain, first a gentle drizzle, then a steady downpour. They hastened their steps, but the roads became muddy and slippery, which made progress slow.

"Say, Zeb," Abner at length panted, "an' ye really think I need a change of heart?"

"Don't ye think so ye'rself?" was the evasive reply. "Is this rain softenin' ye up? It is me, at any rate, an' I'm gittin' soaked."

"But how kin I begin the change, Zeb?"

"Guess ye'll have to work out that sum ye'rself, Abner, if it's not too hard."

"Now, that's jist the trouble. It is too hard. Ye see, me ancestors are to blame. They were all fightin' men, an' so that spirit has come down to me."

"H'm," Zeb sniffed. "The trouble with you is that ye've chosen ye'r own ancestors."

"Chosen me own ancestors! How could a man do that?"

"Easy enough. Ye've got a quarrelsome spirit, Abner, an' ye naturally choose sich dead men as suit ye. Ye kin go to the past fer anythin', it seems t' me, jist as people go to the Bible to find what agrees with their way of thinkin'. Now, isn't that so?"

"But what am I to do, Zeb?"

"Think of men who have followed peace instead of war; men who have served their country an' sacrificed themselves. If ye kin do that, perhaps ye'll git their spirit, which, in my opinion, will do ye a great deal of good."

"Mebbe ye'r right, Zeb," Abner agreed. "But darn it all, I don't know nuthin' about men of peace who sacrificed themselves fer others. I've already sacrificed much fer Glucom by lookin' after Joe Preston. If that wasn't a good deed fer the welfare of the community, then I'd like to know what it was."

"But ye'r heart wasn't right, Abner," Zeb explained. "There was anger there, an' when ye knocked Joe out ye never thought of the public good, but of ye'r own personal injury. That's not the way. Git them good ancestors to work, then ye'll know what I mean, an' ye'll begin to rub people the right way. Life will be much more pleasant, see if it isn't."

"Good ancestors, rubbin' people the right way," Abner muttered, as he plodded along. "I'd like to know how to begin, skiddy-me-shins if I wouldn't."

CHAPTER XVIII

A MOIST RECEPTION

Abner was somewhat uneasy as to the reception he would be likely to receive at home. What would his wife say about the two waifs he had sheltered for the night and the ruined pillow-slips? Judging from past experiences, he felt quite sure that a lively time lay ahead of him, and he knew that he would need the combined spirits of all his peace-loving ancestors to aid him in keeping calm.

Thinking of such things, he walked slowly to the back door after he had parted from Zeb at the gate. He had no idea what time of the night it was, though he was sure that it was late, for the house was wrapped in complete darkness. He decided to slip in unnoticed and occupy the sofa in the kitchen for the night. And glad would he be to rest, for he was very tired after such a trying day and his long walk home.

Reaching the back door, he gently tried the latch, but it was firmly secured from within. He had partly expected this, as he knew how particular his wife was about fastening the doors before going to bed. She had often told about a robbery which had once taken place at a certain house because the back door had been left open. Abner thought she might have departed from her strict rule for this night, at least, in case of his return. It annoyed him to think how little his absence was considered by his own family.

Failing to find an entrance here, he at once remembered the window in the woodshed.

"Lucky fer me," he mused, "that I didn't fix that winder. That's a time when I was right, an' I won't fergit to remind Tildy of it, neither."

It was so dark that he made considerable noise as he walked around the end of the woodshed. He tripped over a pail, and when he had with difficulty recovered himself, the clothes-line, which had been drawn taut by the rain, caught him under the chin, and gave his head such a jerk that he was sure his neck was cracked. These mishaps by no means sweetened his temper, but he managed to restrain his feelings so far as speech was concerned, though, as he afterwards expressed it, he was "bilin' within."

It took him several minutes to find the window, and this he accomplished by feeling his way along the side of the building. When his hands at length reached the opening, which was about up to his shoulders, he gave a spring, caught his elbows upon the sill and pulled himself up. This was somewhat hard to do as Abner's body almost filled the opening. After two or three frantic wriggles he progressed far enough to balance himself upon his stomach upon the sill. Another wriggle and he would be through. But just at this critical juncture there was a sudden movement within the shed, a rush was heard, and then a flood of cold water was dashed into his face. With a half-smothered yell of surprise Abner recoiled, and ere he could regain himself, he lost his balance and fell sprawling upon the ground.

For a few seconds he lay there puzzled and half dazed. What did it all mean? he asked himself. Who could be in the woodshed at that hour of the night? Why had the water been thrown into his face? Then the terrible thought flashed into his mind that something must have happened to his family, that robbers might be in control of the house, who had committed some terrible deed. The silence of the house lent color to this suspicion, and a wild fury filled Abner's soul. He scrambled to his knees, then to his feet. He would teach the villains a lesson they would not soon forget. They would not escape his wrath, and he must be quick.

Hurrying around the building as fast as possible, he reached the door, and was about to force it open, when the sound of splashing water fell upon his ears, accompanied by a heavy thump upon the floor, as if somebody had fallen. Instantly a woman's wild shriek rent the air, mingled with children's cries of distress. Certain now that something was seriously wrong within, Abner put his shoulder to the door, which immediately gave way with a crash. This only tended to cause the cries and shrieks to grow louder than ever, and Abner was completely confused by the din. He could see nothing, and he did not know which way to step. He felt around through the blackness, but could touch nothing.

"Shet up ye'r yellin'," he roared, "an' tell me what's the matter."

This command had the desired effect, for the babel lessened.

"Abner, oh, Abner, is that you?" came a voice from his left, which he recognized as belonging to his wife.

"Sure, it's me," was the reply. "What in the divil does all this mean?"

"I thought you were a pack of robbers," Mrs. Andrews moaned. "Get a light, quick; I'm afraid I've killed one of the boys."

As Abner turned toward the kitchen a light suddenly illumined the darkness. Jess was coming, carrying a lamp in her hand, closely followed by Belle. Both girls were clad in their dressing-gowns, and their faces were white with fear.

"Daddy, daddy, what is the matter?" Jess asked.

"Look out, there, ye'll let that lamp fall," Abner warned. "Give it to me. My, ye're tremblin' all over."

"Oh, tell me what has happened," Jess pleaded. "Is anybody killed?"

"Sounds like somethin's dyin'," Abner replied, as he took the lamp from the girl's trembling hand and turned the light upon the shed. As he did so he saw a peculiar sight. Lying on the floor, with her back to the wall, was his wife, with an expression of misery depicted upon her face. On each side of her was a little boy, hopelessly entangled in the bed-clothes, and with wide staring eyes, filled with wonder and terror. Near by he saw three other little chaps also awake, and watching all that was taking place.

"What's the meaning of this?" Abner demanded. "An' what's all that water doin' on the floor? There's as much there as there is on me an' down me neck."

Mrs. Andrews made no reply. She seemed to be greatly overcome. At once Jess stooped down and put her arms around her mother's shoulders.

"Mother dear, are you sick?" she asked. "Let me help you up. Something dreadful must have happened. Come into the kitchen."

Breathing heavily and moaning, Mrs. Andrews was rescued from her lowly position, assisted into the kitchen, and placed upon a chair.

"I'm afraid I'm dying," the woman moaned. "I never had such a fright in all my life. It was worse than the auto."

"She's luney," Abner remarked. "Her brain's turned. Better git the smellin'-salts, Jess; they'll bring her to."

"My brain's not turned," was the emphatic and unexpected protest. "You're luney yourself, Abner Andrews, and everybody knows it. What do you mean by prowling about the house at this time of night, scaring people out of their wits?"

"An' what do people mean by sleepin' in the woodshed?" Abner retorted. "How did I know ye was there with a hull bunch of kids."

"They're some of yours, though, Abner. I have as much right to bring children into this house as you have. You needn't think that you run this place."

Abner was about to make a strong sarcastic reply, when he suddenly thought of his peaceful ancestors, and checked himself just in time.

"There now, me love," he replied in his most affable manner, "I know I don't run this place, an' never did. You run it so well, Tildy, that I wouldn't dare to interfere."

Abner felt quite proud of this effort, and smiled broadly upon his wife, expecting her to be astonished at these words. In this, however, he was disappointed. Mrs. Andrews was in no mood for soft words, and she viewed him critically from head to foot.

"Have you been drinking, Abner?" she asked. "Is that why you are so late coming home?"

"Drinkin'! Good Lord!" Abner gasped. "What makes ye think that I have, Tildy?"

"By the way you've acted ever since you came home. You first tramped around the house as if you were afraid to come in, and scared me most to death, and now you get off a whole lot of senseless nonsense. I never heard the like of it."

"No, I guess ye ain't used to sich things, Tildy. I've been in the habit of sayin' pretty nasty things, but I've had a change of heart, ye see, an' that makes the difference."

"A change of heart!"

"Sure," and Abner stroked his chin and smiled.

"Have you been to a revival meeting in town?" his wife demanded.

"No, not as bad as that. But I've had a change of heart, all right, an' I'm havin' a wonderful experience. I see all me good ancestors a-hoverin' over me head, smilin' an' breathin' upon me peaceful spirits. Oh, it's great! Don't ye wish you felt like that, Tildy? I think a new heart 'ud do you good, too."

"What I need is a new husband," was the scornful reply.

"But ye have a new husband, Tildy. He's come back to ye from the pit of destruction. He's changed, I tell ye, an' his heart is like the heart of a little child."

"And as simple, why don't you say? I'd like to know what's come over you."

"An' I'd like to know what's happened to you, Tildy. Why were ye sleepin' out in the woodshed? Were ye mournin' so much over me that ye couldn't stay in the old bed where we've slept fer years? Guess ye've got a warm spot in ye'r heart fer me after all, haven't ye?"

"It wasn't for your sake I was sleeping in the woodshed," Mrs. Andrews explained, "but to look after those children."

"Oh, I see; an' ye armed ye'rself with pails of water, eh?"

"I certainly did, as you should know."

Abner glanced down at his wet clothes and smiled.

"What happened to the other pail, Tildy?"

"I tripped over it; that's what I did."

"And landed upon the kids, ho, ho."

"Is it anything to laugh at? I might have killed the poor little things."

"Sure, sure, ye might, Tildy. It's nuthin' to laff at, oh, no. I shouldn't laff at anythin' like that when I've had a change of heart, should I? De ye think me good ancestors 'ud act that way?"

While this conversation was going on, Jess and Belle were attending to the children, soothing their fears and arranging the disordered bed-clothes. They had overheard the animated talk, nevertheless, and it amused them. They looked upon the whole affair as a joke when they knew that no harm had been done. Belle, especially, enjoyed the fun. It was the first real family scene of this kind she had witnessed since coming to Ash Point, although Jess had often told her that she might expect it at any time, but not to be at all alarmed when it did happen. They came back into the kitchen just as Abner was speaking about his peaceful ancestors.

"Don't you think you should go to bed, daddy?" Jess asked. "That seems to me to be the best way to settle all disputes to-night."

"Indeed, I do," Abner agreed, "'specially fer a man who wants to imbibe the spirits of his ancestors."

"I'm still convinced that you've been imbibing Tom Grogan's spirits," Mrs. Andrews replied. "Why, I can smell it on your breath, can't you, Jess?"

"I guess ye'r wrong this time, Tildy. Ye've never smelled the spirits of me ancestors, not by a jugful."

"Indeed, I haven't, and I hope to goodness I never shall," his wife retorted. "But get away to bed, all of you."

"I'm goin' to watch them kids fer the rest of the night," Abner announced.

"No, you're not," his wife declared. "I couldn't trust you with them. I've undertaken the job for to-night, and I intend to carry it through, so, away with you all, and let me get some rest."

Abner at once started off, humming as he went:

"When Bill Larkins made his money."

Mrs. Andrews and the girls watched him until he had disappeared. Then they looked at one another with wondering eyes. Jess was the first to speak.

"I'm afraid there's something wrong with daddy," she whispered.

"I'm sure of it," her mother replied. "He's either luney, or he's been drinking."

But Belle laughed at them.

"You needn't worry about him," she declared. "He's neither crazy nor drunk. He has more sense left than most men. It's only his way."

"Which way? I'd like to know," and Mrs. Andrews sighed. "He's had so many ways since we've been married that I don't know which way you mean."

"That may be so, Mrs. Andrews, but I believe this way is a good one, so we must not worry."

"Let us hope so," was all that Mrs. Andrews said. Nevertheless, she found it hard to get to sleep again, for she knew her husband better than either of the girls.

CHAPTER XIX

JERRY, ME PARDNER

It was late when Abner awoke the next morning. This was a most unusual thing for him, and he felt annoyed at himself as he hurriedly dressed and hastened downstairs. The house seemed to be deserted. He glanced at the clock, and was surprised to find that it was a quarter to nine. His breakfast was all ready on the table, but no one was to be seen. A copy of The Live Wire lying by his plate arrested his attention.

"Some class to this," he remarked, half aloud, as he unfolded the paper. "Jist like a hotel; breakfast waitin', an' the mornin' paper right at hand. Reg'lar Waldorf-Astoria style. Hello! what in time——!"

His eyes had caught sight of the big headlines, and he saw his own name prominently displayed along with Joe Preston's. It was a great write-up, and Abner read it through to the bitter end. It told of his savage attack upon the editor, how he looked and acted, and of his arrest and confinement in jail. Then followed a description of his life's history, which ended by saying that he had been looked upon as dangerous for some time. It was really believed by many that, owing to his peculiar actions, he was not altogether in his right mind. The incident of his offering one thousand dollars toward the Orphanage was mentioned, and how he did not have enough money to pay even five dollars, let alone the whole amount. Not a word was said in his favor. He was painted in the darkest colors, and it was suggested that he should either be placed in the Asylum as a lunatic, or in the Penitentiary as a most dangerous character.

A peculiar expression overspread Abner's face as he finished reading. He laid the paper aside and began his breakfast. When he was through, he filled his pipe and walked out of the house. The rain had ceased in the night, but the air was damp and heavy. It was a gloomy morning, and accorded perfectly with the state of his mind. He heard the voices of the children in the barn and knew that the girls were with them. It was the best place to play on a day such as this. He had no mind to join them, as he wished to be alone in order to think.

He stood for a few minutes near the woodshed, looking down upon the river, over which drifted a heavy mist. He longed to be out there in the Flying Scud, away from all land-lubbers. It was the life to which he was especially fitted. Picking up his axe, which was lying by the chopping-block, he threw it over his shoulder and walked rapidly toward the shore. There was considerable drift-wood to be gathered, and he generally spent wet days at this work. He needed something to do, and in wrestling with the roots, logs, and blocks he could give physical vent to his pent-up feelings.

His row-boat was pulled up on the beach, and his small canoe, used for muskrat and duck shooting, was lying bottom up among the bushes. He was tempted to launch the latter, cross to the island and spend the day there. Any place was preferable to remaining near home where he knew that ere long he must submit to a regular bombardment of questions. He wondered what had become of his wife. It was a most unusual thing for her to be absent from home at this time of the morning. He could see the house plainly from where he stood on the shore, and he occasionally turned and looked in that direction. Abner was well aware that he should go to town for Jerry, but he was in no mood for the long walk over the muddy roads. He would need the horse for haying as soon as the weather cleared.

"Confound it all!" he growled. "I don't want to see that town agin fer a long time. I'm sick of it. Why can't people leave me alone, anyway? They'll all read that piece in the paper, an' they'll think I'm the biggest villain on the face of the hull earth. I wonder how Zeb would act if he'd been rubbed the wrong way most of his life sich as I have. Peaceful ancestors, be blowed!"

In order to express his feelings he started to work, and every blow of the axe was not only upon log or block, but upon his enemies. This violent exercise did him a great deal of good, and he mentally compared the joy of being in the fresh air with the stuffy and unsavory jail.

After an hour of such work he felt in a better frame of mind. He had put all of his enemies to flight and was the victor. There was joy in the feeling, and his face wore a more benign expression when he at length paused, seated himself upon a log, and began to re-fill his pipe. He thus sat looking out over the water, thinking of his previous day's experiences, and of what Zeb had to say about his peaceful ancestors. At times he felt that his neighbor was right, but the spirits of his war-like ancestors had been with him for so long that he found it most difficult to rid himself of their influence.

"It's a darn hard thing to shake off old friends," he muttered. "It's 'specially hard when ye'r in sympathy with 'em, an' want to do jist as they did. They've stood by me fer many a year now, an' their words an' actions have allus jibed with mine. I wonder if me peaceful ancestors will see eye to eye with me. That's the pint Zeb didn't take into consideration. If I've got to trim me sails to their gentle actions I'm afraid I'll land in the lunatic asylum fer sure."

He was aroused from his meditation by a step behind him, and looking quickly around, he saw a man approaching but a few yards away. The presence of this stranger annoyed Abner. What right had anyone to creep upon him that way? he asked himself.

But the visitor was by no means daunted by Abner's surly expression. He came jauntily forward, and held out a big fat hand.

"Glad to meet you, Mr. Andrews," he accosted. "Having a quiet time here all by yourself, I see. Beautiful spot, isn't it?"

"Is it?" Abner sullenly asked, as he viewed the man most carefully. He did not like his looks, and he believed him to be an agent, who wished to sell him apple-trees.

"It's the finest place I've seen in a long time," the man replied. "And look at that wood! I suppose you get your winter's supply here. You are fortunate. We in the city have to buy ours, while the Lord casts yours right at your door."

"You come from the city, eh?" Abner queried.

"Oh, yes. Have lived there all my life, though I do long to spend the rest of my days in the country, away from all bustle and confusion, and live the quiet life."

"To pile drift-wood and do sich jobs, I s'pose?"

"Yes, that would be a pleasure. Good for the appetite."

"Think ye'd make enough to eat on this place?" Abner asked.

"I'm sure I could. Why, all you farmers have to do is to go into the garden, for your supplies, and to the shore for your fuel, while we in the city have to pay for such things."

Abner felt like kicking this fellow and telling him in no uncertain language what a fool he was. But he thought of his peaceful ancestors and so changed his mind.

"Yes, ye'r quite right, Mister," he drawled. "We do have a great time here in the bush. Lots to eat in the summer time fer nuthin'. An' in the winter it's jist the same. We eat icicles fer breakfast, warmed-up snow fer dinner, an' fer supper we have a slice off one of them cedar blocks there. Ye see, them sticks have been floatin' so long in the river that they have a fishy smell, an' when a piece is fried in molasses, why, ye couldn't tell it from the finest lake trout. Did ye ever try one?"

"I certainly never did," the stranger smilingly replied. "It must be rather hard to digest, isn't it?"

"Oh, we don't use our digesters in the winter time. We lay 'em away in the cellar until spring. It's great how they work then, after a good long rest."

"I see you're quite a humorist, Mr. Andrews," and again the visitor smiled. "Life in the country is conducive to humor, I suppose?"

"Sure. It's the funniest place ye ever sot eyes on. It makes people roarin' funny all the time. Why, when we go to the city people jist stand and laff at us, an' the funny papers fill their pages with humor about the doin's of the bush. Everythin' is funny here. Even Abner Andrews is considered a humorous cuss, an' that's sayin' a good deal."

The visitor now realized that this quaint farmer was slyly poking fun at him, and he was anxious to change the subject.

"I've come to see you on an important matter, Mr. Andrews," he explained, "and as I am in a hurry, I shall come to business at once. I'm a real estate agent, with my office in the city, and I am anxious to make some enquiries about your farm. I have come in the interest of a man who is seeking for a suitable place to build a large summer hotel. Now, as you have such an excellent location here, I feel that this is just the right spot for the hotel. The view is excellent, the river is right near for boating and bathing, and from all accounts there are fine lakes and brooks back in the hills for trout fishing. Is not that so?"

"Ye'r sartinly right," Abner assented. "Ye couldn't find a nicer spot if ye hunted the hull province over."

"I'm very glad that you agree with me, Mr. Andrews," the visitor replied, somewhat surprised as he had been warned to beware of the farmer, as he was a most disagreeable man to deal with.

"Oh, I don't mind agreein' with sich things, Mister, 'specially so when they're correct."

"And you think it would be an excellent place for a summer hotel?"

"Sure, I do. Why, a man 'ud make his fortune in no time. It wouldn't cost him nuthin' to feed the people. They'd catch all the trout they could eat, an' when they didn't want fish they could jist set on the grass an' feed upon the beauties of Nature. It 'ud be cheap fer the people, too, 'cause they wouldn't have to bother with fine clothes. When they weren't fishin' they'd be in bathin', when they wouldn't need no clothes at all."

"Ha, ha, that certainly would be fine," the agent laughed. "Utopia, eh?"

"I'm not," Abner declared. "Don't ye say that agin."

"Say what?" the stranger asked in surprise.

"Ask me if I'm a toper. I never got real drunk in me life. I never took too much."

"You misunderstand me, Mr. Andrews," the agent explained, much amused. "I didn't say 'toper,' but 'Utopia,' which means a most delightful place, where people are all happy, and life is simple and free."

"Oh, that's what ye mean, is it? Well, fer heaven's sake, why didn't ye say so an' speak plain English instid of sich city jargon? I ain't got time to waste this mornin', if you have."

"Neither have I," the agent replied, looking at his watch. "My, I have to be in Glucom in half an hour! Look here, will you sell your place?"

"How are ye travellin'?" Abner asked.

"By auto. It's out there on the road."

"An' ye're goin' right straight to Glucom, eh?"

"Yes, as soon as I get through with this business. Will you sell, Mr. Andrews?"

For a few seconds Abner did not reply. He thought of his horse in town, an' then of his peaceful ancestors. If he could rub this man the right way, as Zeb suggested, it might save him that long walk.

"I am willing to make you a liberal offer," the agent continued. "But I must have an answer to-day, or I shall have to choose another locality and you would be the loser."

"I'm willin' to sell," Abner replied, as he slowly took the pipe from his mouth and studied it very carefully.

"That's good," the agent encouraged. "Now, what's your figure?"

"Figger! Well, I can't jist tell ye off-hand. I've got to consult me pardner."

"Your wife, eh?"

"No she's not me pardner; she's me boss. Me pardner's in town jist now. We work this place together ye see, so I couldn't give ye a price without consultin' Jerry."

"And Jerry's in town, is he?"

"Sure. An' I can't do nuthin' without consultin' him."

"Suppose, then, you come along with me, and we can see Jerry," the visitor suggested.

"Jist the thing, Mister," Abner agreed, rising to his feet and throwing the axe over his shoulder. "I'll be with ye in a jiffy."

Abner hurried up to the house, chuckling as he went, while the agent strolled slowly toward the road, viewing the farm as he walked. Abner found no one in the house, and this made him wonder. But he had no time to delay just then, so, donning his coat, he was standing waiting as the car stopped at the gate.

It did not take long to speed into Glucom. Abner compared this trip with the toilsome one he and Zeb had made the night before, and he decided that he would have a car of his own when he was able.

"Where shall we go?" the agent asked, as he swung the car into the main street.

"To the station," Abner replied.

And to the station they sped, and when Abner stepped out he went at once into the office. There he found Sam, who greeted him like a long-lost brother, and offered him a chair.

"Can't set down, Sam," Abner told him. "I want Jerry; where is he?"

"In Dingman's barn. He let me have the use of it for a few days. You'll find Jerry all right and in good condition."

Sam was much surprised at Abner's excited manner, and he watched him through the window as he spoke to the stranger in the car, and then hurried up the street.

"What in time is Abner up to now, I wonder. Surely he's not going to sell his horse."

It did not take Abner long to find Jerry, and when mounted upon the waggon, he drove proudly back to the station to the expectant agent.

"Look here," the agent impatiently demanded, "you have kept me a deuce of a long time. I'm in a hurry."

"I can't help that," Abner replied, as he reined Jerry up close to the station platform. "I didn't tell ye to wait, did I?"

"But you wanted me to wait till you had consulted with your partner, didn't you?"

"So I did. What was I thinkin' about?"

"And you've seen him?" was the eager question.

"Sure, sure; I've seen Jerry, all right."

"Is he willing to sell?"

"Ye bet ye'r boots he is. Jerry's willin', fer he's more tired of Ash Pint than of anythin' else. He needs more excitement than he kin find on a farm. He wants to be near the train so's he kin hear the en-gines holler. It allus puts new life into him."

"That's fine. I suppose you've agreed on the price?"

"Oh, yes, we agree, all right, we allus do. Never had a fallin' out yit."

"Now, how much do you want for the place, Mr. Andrews?"

"Well, let me see," and Abner scratched his head in a thoughtful manner. "Oh, I guess fifteen thousand'll do all right."

"Fifteen thousand!" the agent exclaimed. "Fifteen thousand for that wretched place of yours, which is as poor as Job's turkey, so I understand. You must be crazy, man. Your farm isn't worth more than seven hundred dollars, and how have you the gall to value it at fifteen thousand? You don't pay taxes on more than five hundred, do you?"

"Mebbe I don't, Mister. But ye see there are some things ye'r not taxed fer, an' them's the things which you an' others seem to think very valuable. There's the situation, which is the finest in the country, accordin' to ye'r own statement. That should be worth five thousand; the view, fresh air, an' the boatin' an' swimmin' privileges, another five, so that makes ten thousand. Then there's the gravel on the place, an' I guess it's nearly all gravel, an' that's worth a great deal fer ballast, so I understand. It alone should bring fifteen thousand, but Jerry an' me are quite willin' to let ye have the hull outfit fer that amount, an' throw in the situation, air, an' sich things fer nuthin'."

The agent was angry now, and it was with considerable effort that he controlled his temper. He knew that Abner was making fun of him, and this nettled him exceedingly. He was, in fact, beginning to doubt the farmer's sanity. He glanced at Jerry and then at the waggon. In his excitement he had not thought of their presence as unusual. Where had they come from, anyway?

"Is that your horse?" he abruptly asked.

"Guess so."

"But aren't you sure?"

"No, sir-ee, I'm not. Ye'r never sure of that hoss. He's got a mind of his own, he has, jist like any pardner should have."

"Partner!" and the agent's eyes bulged with a new light. "Do you mean to tell me that he's the partner you've been speakin' about?"

"Sure; I was tellin' ye no fib. A man might have a darn sight worse one, let me tell ye that."

"And he's Jerry?"

"Yep; that's what I call him."

This was too much for the agent. With a savage oath, he settled himself back in his seat, and started the engine.

"Don't ye want to buy our place?" Abner asked. "We're willin' to sell, ain't we, Jerry?"

"To h—l with your place," the agent snarled, as he started the car. "I wouldn't do business with a fool, and that's what you are."

"Thanks fer the compliment an' fer the ride to town," Abner replied. "If it hadn't been fer you I'd had to walk here after Jerry. Guess it pays to rub people the right way, after all, ha, ha."

He watched the agent as he sped away. His mouth was expanded into a grin, and his gray eyes twinkled.

"Peaceful ancestors!" he chuckled. "Whew! Guess Zeb was right after all. It sartinly does the work. That feller's been set on by Ikey Dimock as sure as I'm livin'. But Abner Andrews, of Ash Pint, wasn't caught nappin', not by a jugful, skiddy-me-shins if he was. Gid-dap, Jerry, me dear old pardner. We must git home an' face the music there."

CHAPTER XX

UNDER SUSPICION

The kind of music that Abner expected to face when he reached home was wanting. Instead of a severe scolding, tirades, and a regular bombardment of embarrassing questions, he was received in a most gracious manner. The children flocked about him as he unhitched Jerry and put him in the stable. It was somewhat late and dinner was over, but Mrs. Andrews had his place set and everything hot in the oven. She even smiled as he entered the kitchen, a most unusual thing for her. But Abner thought that she watched him somewhat curiously and anxiously as he hung up his coat and hat. He could also feel her eyes upon him as he washed himself and brushed his tangled hair before the little mirror. He wondered what it all meant, though he made no comment, but at once took his seat at the table. After serving him, Mrs. Andrews sat down on the opposite side of the table, another remarkable thing for her.

"How are the kids gittin' along?" Abner at length enquired, more for something to say than anything else.

"Very well, I guess," was the somewhat absent-minded reply. "They seem to be having a good time."

Silence then ensued after this effort to start conversation, and Abner went on with his meal. But he was restless, and glanced occasionally out of the window. Once he stopped and listened intently. This Mrs. Andrews noted, and her face became grave.

"It's only the children," she explained. "The girls are playing with them near the barn."

"Say," Abner at length remarked, "has this change-of-heart bizness struck yez all, too?"

"Why, what do you mean?" his wife asked.

"But what has come over yez all, Tildy? This house seems strange. I ginerally got a reg'lar dressin' down, when I came home late fer dinner. I was so used to it that this peaceful reception is gittin' on me nerves. I'm like Jerry, an' can't stand things when they're too quiet."

"When did you experience a change of heart, Abner?"

"Last night when walkin' home with Zeb. He's the best hand at that I ever come across. He kin beat Billy Sunday all to bits. He put the punch into me, all right, an' I guess you must have got a touch of it too, Tildy."

"Maybe I have, Abner. But, you see, I'm feeling sorry for you after what you've gone through of late."

"An' ye don't blame me, Tildy?" Abner asked in astonishment.

"How can I? It wasn't your fault. I know you couldn't help it, and that is what worries me. But there, never mind that now. I have something to tell you. Abe Dugan wants to know if you will give him a hand this afternoon with that boat he's making."

"He does, eh? Well, I like his gall. Does he think I've got nuthin' to do?"

"But it's a dull day, Abner, and I want you to take back a pattern I borrowed from Mrs. Dugan this morning."

"So that's where ye were, was it? I thought ye had cleared out entirely."

"I merely ran over to get a pattern. I want to make some trousers for the boys, and as we have had no need for such a thing I knew that Mrs. Dugan would let me have hers. She's going to help me with the work."

"She is? Good fer her. I didn't know that she would stoop to sich things."

"Oh, yes, she's much interested in the boys, and is going to do all she can. But she wants that pattern back this afternoon, and if you won't take it, then I shall have to do so, though I have so much cooking to do since we have all those extra mouths to feed."

"An' more grub to buy, eh? An' where's the stuff to come from fer them pants, I'd like to know?"

"I am going to use some of your old clothes. I can make them over. The poor little boys are almost in rags."

Abner rose from the table, filled and lighted his pipe.

"Where's that pattern?" he abruptly asked.

"So you're going, are you, Abner?"

"Sure, I am. When ye rub me the way ye have to-day, an' when Mrs. Abe is goin' to help with them pants, I can't very well refuse to give a hand out on that boat. My, we're all gittin' mighty holy an' neighborly all of a sudden. Guess a change of heart must have struck all around. I wonder if it has affected Abe. He could stand a good dose of it."

Abner was really glad of an excuse to go to his neighbor's, as he had not seen him for some time. The building of a boat was of greater interest to him than splitting and piling wood down on the shore. He would find out, too, if Abe had heard anything about his experiences in town; how Joe Preston was getting along, and what people were saying about the affair.

It was about three in the afternoon when he reached the Dugan house, and he was informed by Mrs. Dugan that Abe had been called over to Joe Sanders to see his sick horse. Abe considered himself a specialist on animal diseases, and was much in demand.

"But you needn't mind Abe's absence," Mrs. Dugan told him. "You know more about boats than he does, so you can go right on with the work. The boat is there in the workshop. It is only just started."

Abner noticed that Mrs. Dugan eyed him somewhat curiously, although he paid little attention to it. Perhaps she had heard about his arrest, and wished to see what a man looked like who had been in jail. He was soon lost in the work upon the boat and forgot all about Mrs. Dugan's close scrutiny.

The workshop was adjoining the woodshed, which led off from the kitchen, and for an hour Abner worked away with no one to disturb him. About four o'clock, however, women began to come into the shop. Not all together, but one at a time. First there was Mrs. Bennett, who was anxious, so she said, to see the building of the boat. She asked a number of questions, and interfered with Abner. He treated her most courteously, however, remembering his peaceful ancestors. Then came Mrs. Hopkins. She, too, wished to see the building of the boat, and she had much to say about the time she used to sail on the river with her husband before they were married. Abner breathed a sigh of relief when she left, and wondered how many more women the house contained, and what in the world they were doing there that afternoon. He was not left long alone, however, for in a few minutes Miss Julia Tomkins, a maiden of uncertain age, came out and questioned him about the orphans he had taken into his house.

"I am so much concerned about those children," she informed him, "that I have lain awake at nights thinking about them. And I know others are, too, and we have met here this afternoon to make up clothes for them."

"An' so that's what ye'r doin', eh?" Abner asked, as he paused in the act of driving in a nail. "I was wonderin' what kind of a hen-party Mrs. Dugan was havin' this afternoon. How many more are there of yez?"

"There are about ten in all. It shows what an interest the women are taking in those children."

"Ten! Good Lord!" Abner ejaculated. "It's no wonder Abe cleared out. Are they all comin' to see me build this boat?"

"Does your head hurt you much to-day?" Miss Tomkins asked.

"Me head! Gee whiz, no! What makes ye think it does?"

"Because you look so worried."

"An' wouldn't anyone look worried with so many visitors? It's not me head but me hands that hurt. Look at that, now," and Abner held out his big rough left hand for inspection. "I sawed that finger twice when Mrs. Bennett was snookin' around here, an' I hit that thumb with the hammer when Mrs. Hopkins was gittin' on me nerves. If any more of them hens come I don't know what will happen. I'm feelin' rather dangerous, an' might lose me head altogether. So it's better fer 'em to stay away."

"You poor man," Miss Tomkins sympathized. "You have been badly treated. I shall see that you are not bothered by any more visitors. But——" Here she hesitated.

"But what?" Abner queried.

"Oh, I was just going to add that if you don't feel well at any time just call out, will you?"

"Call out! What fer?"

"For help, of course. If you feel an attack coming on you at any time, just let me know. I had an uncle who was subject to such spells, and I know more about them than most people. Now, be sure," and Miss Tomkins smiled most sweetly. "So few people understand such cases."

Abner stared at his visitor in amazement, and watched her as she walked away. Was Miss Tomkins going out of her mind? he wondered. He had heard that she often had queer notions, and did strange things. So an uncle of hers had been odd, too, and had spells, so she said. Ah, that accounted for it. It ran in the family. He resumed his work, but he could not forget Miss Tomkins' peculiar words and looks. Why had she spoken like that to him? and why had Mrs. Bennett and Mrs. Hopkins looked at him so curiously?

He had just raised the hammer to drive in a nail when his arm suddenly weakened and the blow fell upon the board instead. An idea had flashed into his mind with startling intensity. Did Miss Tomkins and the rest of the women think that he was off his head? He thought, too, of Tildy's looks and actions, and in a twinkling the whole thing was as clear as day. She believed that there was something wrong with his head, and she had arranged with Mrs. Dugan to have those women meet him there that afternoon, that they might talk with him and give their opinions.

The first feeling that came into Abner's heart was a strong resentment. He felt like walking right into the house and telling those women what he thought. This soon passed away, however, and a smile illumined his face. He remembered his peaceful ancestors, and what Zeb had told him. He became calm and went on with his work. But his mind was busy and he thought of more than the boat that afternoon. Several times he chuckled, and once he paused and gazed absently out of the dust-laden window. In half an hour he was in a great humor and would even have embraced Ikey Dimock had he happened along just then. He had what he considered a brilliant idea, and he was never satisfied until he had worked it out of his system by definite action.

Abner now was losing interest in the boat. He had something else on hand, and he was wondering how he could best put it into practice.

He was thinking of this when Mrs. Dugan came into the workshop, and invited him in to have a cup of tea. "We are all ready," she informed him, "and would like to have you with us. You don't mind a lot of women, do you?"

"Should say not," was the reply, "I'm used to 'em. But I ain't fitted up fer afternoon tea," and he glanced down at his clothes.

"Oh, you're all right, Mr. Andrews. It's not your clothes we're anxious to see, but you."

"I guess ye'r right," Abner thought. "I see through ye'r game. Yez want to see how I'll act, an' if I'm really luney? Well, yez'll have a chance, me hearties."

"You'll come, won't you?" Mrs. Dugan pleaded. "The women will be so disappointed if you don't."

"Sure, I'll go," and Abner laid down the saw, and followed the woman into the house.

They passed through the kitchen and into the dining-room, where the women were all gathered. They were talking in a most animated manner, but suddenly ceased and a dead silence ensued as Abner entered. Several nodded and smiled their welcome, but no one spoke.

"I've got him at last," Mrs. Dugan informed them. "He didn't want to come, but when I told him how anxious you all were to see him, he just couldn't refuse, could you, Mr. Andrews?"

"Should say not," Abner gallantly replied, "'specially when a hull bunch of women wish to look upon me handsome features, an' when they've somethin' good to eat. Tildy says I allus shine then."

"He's not luney," Mrs. Parker whispered to Mrs. Peters, who was sitting next her.

"He doesn't seem so," was the reply. "But, my! look what he's doing!"

Mrs. Dugan had offered Abner a chair, but instead of sitting down he stood upon it, and gazed around smilingly upon the astonished women.

"I allus like to stand in the presence of ladies," he explained. "But on an occasion sich as this, it is better fer me to stand as high as possible, so's yez all kin git a good look at me."

"My lands!" Mrs. Hepburn exclaimed, holding up her hands in horror. "What's going to happen next?"

"You can't eat standing up there, can you?" Mrs. Dugan asked, as she stood before Abner with tea and cake upon a tray.

"Sure, why not? It's good fer the digester. When I was runnin' the old Flyin' Scud an' had an attack of indigestion, I uster climb to the top of the mast an' stand there an' eat me meals. This is a cinch to that. No, thank ye, I won't have no cake or doughnut; I'll jist have a piece of ye'r dish-cloth instid. I got so used to that last night in jail, where they feed ye on sich things, that somehow I can't git along without it. Why, it gave me a real change of heart, the same as ye git at a revival meetin'."

By this time the women were pretty badly frightened. They were now sure that Abner was very much wrong in the head, but no one dared to move or say anything. Even Mrs. Dugan was nonplussed. Abner was now in his element, and he thoroughly enjoyed the diversion he was creating. He drank the cup of tea, and then stepped down softly from the chair. He placed the cup on the table, and looked around the room. A cold chill passed up and down the spine of every woman present. What in the world was the man going to do next? each asked herself. The excitement grew intense when Abner presently fixed his eyes upon Miss Tomkins, who was sitting like a statue, paralyzed with fear, as Abner walked straight toward her.

"Go away! go away!" she screamed. "Don't come near me!"

But Abner made no reply. He began to walk around her, and as he walked, Miss Tomkins began to revolve, chair and all. Three times Abner slowly made the circuit, and three times the damsel revolved, keeping her face to his. Then he paused, and looked at the rest of the women, who were standing huddled together at one end of the room.

"Don't git skeered, ladies," he soothed. "I was jist tryin' to see what kind of a heart Miss Julia has, or if she has any. But, blame it all, she wriggles so much I can't find out. I've heard it said that she was heartless as fer as young men are consarned, an' if that's so, then she needs a change of heart right off, if she ever expects to git married."

"You're crazy," Miss Julia retorted, forgetting her fear in her anger. "Get out of this room at once, you brute."