Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

BY ELLIS PARKER BUTLER

Author of “Pigs is Pigs,” “Long Sam ‘Takes Out,’” etc.

Uncle Noah Prutt, sitting in the front row of seats, leaned forward and put his hand behind his ear, vainly seeking to hear what his wife was saying to Judge Murphy. From time to time he stood up, trying to hear the better, but each time the lanky policeman pushed him back into his seat.

“Judge, yer Honor,” said the policeman, after the fifth time, “this man here has nawthin’ t’ do with th’ case, an’ he’s disthurbin’ th’ coort. Shall I thrun him out?”

“Let him be, Flaherty, let him be!” said the justice, carelessly, and at the words Uncle Noah arose and came forward to the black walnut bar that separated the raised platform of the justice from the rest of the room.

“Ah pleads not guilty, Judge!” said Uncle Noah, laying one trembling hand on the rail and pushing forward his ear with the other. He was a coal black Negro, with close-kinked white hair that looked like a white wig. His nose was large and flattened against his face, and his eyeballs were streaked with brown veins that gave him a dissipated look. He was the type of Negro that, at fifty, claims eighty years of age, and, so judged, Uncle Noah Prutt might have been anywhere between sixty and one hundred and ten. As he stood at the bar his black face bore a look of the most deeply pained resentment, and his thick lower lip protruded loosely as a sign of woe.

“Sit down!” shouted both the justice of the peace and the policeman, and, with his lip hanging still lower, Uncle Noah backed into his seat. He sat as far forward as he could, and leaned his head still farther forward.

“Who is that man?” asked the justice of no one in particular.

“Him? He’s mah husban’,” said the young colored woman, with a slight up-tilt of her nose. “Yo’ don’ need to pay no ’tention to him at all, Jedge. Ah ain’ ask him to come yere. He ain’ yere in no capacity but audjeence, he ain’.”

“He has no connection with this case?” asked the justice.

“No, sah!” said the young woman, decidedly.

“If he makes any more trouble, Flaherty,” said the justice, “put him out of the court. Now, what is this trouble, Sally?”

The young woman standing against the bar was fit to be classed as a beauty. Well-formed, with a rich yellow skin through which the blood glowed in her cheeks, with masses of black hair and her head carried high, she was superb, even in her cheap print wrapper. Even the fact that her feet were hideous in a pair of broken and run-down shoes of the sort worn by men did not impair her general appearance of an injured brown Venus seeking justice, and when she glanced at the prisoner her bosom heaved with anger and her brown eyes glowed dangerously.

The prisoner sat humped down in a chair in an attitude of the most profound dejection. He was of a darker brown than the woman, and so loose of joint that when he moved he flopped. His feet were so large as to be almost grotesque, and he was so thin that the bones of his shoulders were outlined by his light coat. But as he sat in the prisoner’s seat his face was the most noticeable feature. It was thin and long for a Negro, but with such high and prominent cheek-bones that his eyes seemed hidden in deep caves, and the eyes were like those of a dog that knows he is to be beaten. His wide mouth hung far down at the corners. He was a picture of the utterly crushed, the utterly helpless, the utterly hopeless. He was the shiftless Negro, with the last ray of hope extinguished. He had but one thing to look forward to, and that was the worst. As the justice asked Sally the question the prisoner’s mouth sagged a bit farther at the ends, and his eyes took a still sadder dullness.

“Yo’ ain’ miss it none when yo’ asks whut am dis trouble, Jedge,” said Sally, angrily. “Dis yere ain’ nuttin’ but trouble, an’ I gwine ask yo’ to send dis yere Silas to jail forebber an’ ebber. Yassah! An’ den he ain’ gwine be in jail long enough to suit me. An’ Ah gwine ask yo’ to declare damages ag’inst him, fo’ huhtin’ mah feelin’s, an’ fo’ tryin’ to drown me, an’ fo’ abductin’ me away from dat poor ol’ no-’count Noah whut am mah husban’, an’ fo’ alieamatin’ mah affections, on’y he couldn’t. When Ah whack him awn de head wid dat bed-slat--”

“Now, one minute,” said the justice, raising his hand. “Flaherty, what do you know about this case?”

“Well, yer Honor,” said the policeman, in the confidential tone an officer of the law assumes when he feels that he, and he only, can explain matters, “th’ way ut was was this way: I was walkin’ me beat up there awn Twilf’ Strate this mawrnin’, like I always does, whin I heard a yellin’ an’ a shoutin’. So I run into th’ lot--”

“What lot?” asked Justice Murphy.

“’Twas betwane Olive an’ Beech Strates, yer Honor. This here deff man, Noah Prutt, lives in a shack-like there, facin’ awn th’ strate. Th’ vacant lot is full iv thim hazel-brushes an’ what all I dunno.”

“You said there was a shanty on the lot. How could it be a vacant lot if there was a shanty on it?” asked the justice.

“Now, yer Honor,” said Flaherty, with an ingratiating smile, “there’s moore than wan lot in th’ wurrld, ain’t there? Th’ lot this Noah Prutt lives awn is wan iv thim. And th’ nixt wan is another iv thim. An’ th’ nixt wan t’ that is th’ third iv thim, an’ th’ ould Darky owns all iv thim, and iv th’ three iv thim but wan is vacant, and that’s th’ middle wan. There’s a shanty awn th’ furrst wan, and there’s a shanty awn th’ thurrd wan, an’ as I was sayin’, there’s nawthin’ awn th’ vacant wan excipt brush-like, an’ mebby a few trees, an’ some tin cans, an’ whatnot.”

“Very good!” said his honor. “Go ahead.”

“Well, sor,” said Flaherty, “this Prutt an’ this wife iv his lives in th’ furrst shanty, but th’ other wan is vacant excipt whin ’t is occupied. Th’ ould man rints ut now an’ again, an’ a dang lonely habitation ut is, set ’way back fr’m th’ strate, like ut is. So here I was, comin’ along, whin I hear th’ racket in th’ vacant lot, an’ whin I got there amidst th’ hazel-brush here was this Sally a-hammerin’ this Silas over th’ head wid a bed-slat, an’ him yellin’ bloody-murdther. So I tuck thim up, th’ bot’ iv thim, yer Honor.”

“And that’s all you know of the case?” asked the judge.

“Excipt what she tould me,” said Flaherty.

“And what was that?” asked Judge Murphy.

“Ut was what previnted me from arristin’ her for assault an’ batthery,” said Flaherty, “for if iver a man was assaulted an’ batthered, this same Silas was. She can wield a bed-slat like a warryor.”

“Ah’d ’a’ killed him! Ah’d ’a’ killed him shore!” said Sally.

“She w’u’d!” said Flaherty, briefly. “Thim Naygurs have th’ harrd heads, but wan more whack an’ he’d iv had a crack in th’ cranyum. So I wrested th’ bed-slat from her. Th’ place looked like there’d been a war, yer Honor. Plinty iv thim hazel-brushes she’d mowed down wid th’ bed-slat thryin’ t’ murdther him. An’ whin I heard th’ sthory, I did not blame her.”

“I have been waiting patiently to hear it myself,” said the justice.

“Accordin’ t’ th’ lady,” said Flaherty, “she’s a respictable married woman, yer Honor, bound in th’ clamps iv wedlock to this Noah Prutt, an’ niver stheppin’ t’ wan side iv th’ path iv wifely duty or to th’ other. ’Tis nawthin’ t’ us why a foine-lookin’ gurrl like her sh’u’d marry an’ ould felly like him. Maybe him havin’ two houses atthracted her. I dunno. But, annyway, she’s had t’ wash th’ wolf from th’ doore.”

“Had to do what?” asked the justice.

“Go out doin’ week’s wash t’ kape food in th’ house,” explained Flaherty. “For th’ ould man will not wurrk much. He’s got that used t’ livin’ awn th’ rint iv th’ exthra shanty, ye see. An’ there’s been no rint comin’ in this long whiles, for th’ prisoner at th’ bar has been th’ tinint iv th’ shanty, an’ he ped no rint at all.”

“Why not?” asked the justice.

“Well, sor,” said Flaherty, rubbing the hair at the back of his neck and grinning, “th’ lady here says he’s been that busy coortin’ her he’s had no time t’ wurrk. ’Twas nawthin’ fr’m wan ind iv th’ week till th’ other but, ‘Will ye elope wid me, darlint?’ an’, ‘Come now, l’ave th’ ould man an’ be me own turtle-dove!’”

“Ah tol’ him Ah gwine murder him ef he gwine keep up dat-a-way of proceedin’!” cried Sally, shrilly. “Ah tol’ him! Ah say, ‘Go on away, you wuthless deadbeat Nigger! Wha’ don’ you pay yo’ rent like a man, befo’ yo’ come talkin’ ’bout supportin’ a lady?’ Dass whut Ah tol’ him, Jedge. An’ whut he say? He say, ‘Sally gal! Ah gwine nab yo’ an’ hab yo’. Ah gwine steal yo’ an’ lock yo’ up, an’ nail yo’ up, an’ keep yo’!’ Dass whut he say. An’ he done hit!”

“Stole you, and locked you up?” asked the judge.

“Yassah!” cried Sally, glaring at the trembling Silas. “He lock me up, an’ he nail me up, an’ he try to drown me, ef Ah ain’ say whut he want me to say. Dat low-down, hypocritical Nigger! Yassah! Ah tole him, ‘Silas, ef yo’ don’ go way an’ leave me alone Ah gwine tek mah hands an’ Ah gwine yank all de wool right offen yo’ haid!’ Dass whut Ah say, Jedge. An’ Ah say, ‘Ef yo’ don’ shet up Ah gwine tear yo’ eyes out!’ An’ Ah means it. Talkin’ up to me like dat! An’ den whut he do?”

She held out her hand toward the dejected Silas and shook her finger at him.

“Den whut he do? He see Ah ain’ to be coax’ dat-a-way, ’cause he a no-’count Nigger, an’ he let on he purtind he get religion an’ wuk on mah feelin’s. Yassah! ’Cause he know Ah’s religious mahsilf an’ he cogitate how he come lak a snake in de grass an’ cotch me whin Ah ain’ thinkin’ no meanness of him. So long come dish yere prophet-man, whut call hisself Obediah, whut get all de Niggers wuk up an’ a-shoutin’ over yonder on de ol’ camp groun’s. Ah am’ tek no stock in dat Obediah prophet-man, Jedge, ’cause Ah a good Baptis’, lak mah husban’ yonder; but plinty of de black folks dey run to him, an’ dey hear him perorate an’ carry on, an’ dey get sot in dere minds dat dey gwine to hebben las’ Tuesday night whin de sun set. Yassah, dass whut dey think, ’cause de prophet-man he pretch dat-a-way. An’ dis yere Silas he let on he gwine to hebben along wid de rest of de folks.”

She let her lip curl scornfully.

“Him a-gwine to hebben!” she scoffed. “But Ah ain’ but half believe he got religion lak he say. Ah say, ‘Luk out, Sally! Ef he gwine to hebben nex’ Tuesday let him go; an’ if he ain’ gwine, let him alone.’ But yo’ look at him, Jedge! Jes look at him! He ain’ look so dangeroos, is he? An’ whin he come to me an’ say, ‘Sally, Ah done got quit of de ol’ Nick whut was in me, an’ Ah gwine be lak dat no mo’,’ Ah jes got to believe him. Yassah! He dat pernicious meek an’ lowly an’ sorrumful-like dat Ah ain’ suspict no divilment at all. ‘Ah feel troubled in mah conscience,’ he say, ‘’cause Ah been tryin’ to lead yo’ on de wrong paff, an’ Ah can’t go to hebben nex’ Tuesday les’ yo’ forgib me,’ he say, an’ he look so downheart’ an’ seem lak he so set on gwine to hebben wid de rest ob de folks, dat Ah say, ‘All right, Silas, Ah don’ hold no hard feelin’s. Ef yo’ don’ bodder me no more, Ah forgib yo’ whut is pas’ an’ done for, but ef yo’ gwine to hebben yo’ better clean up yo’ house an’ put hit in order, lak de Book say, before yo’ start, ’cause ef yo’ don’ yo’ gwine get sint back, shore!’ So he let on lak dat how he think, too. He purtind to thank me kinely fo’ dat recommindation, an’ he ask’ c’u’d Ah lind him a scrub pail an’ a mop an’ a broom, twell he clean up he house. An’ I so done.

“Dass all right! He scrub, an’ he wash, an’ he clean, an’ he move all he furniture out in de lot, an’ he clean, an’ he wash, an’ he scrub! He ain’ wuk lak dat fo’ months, Jedge. So den Ah think shore he got religion, lak he let on. So, come Monday, Ah got a job down to Mis’ Gilbert’s scrubbin’ her house, an’ Ah jes got to hab dat pail an’ dat mop an’ dat broom. So Ah tell Noah whut job Ah got, an’ Ah say, ‘Noah, Ah gwine down to Mis’ Gilbert’s house, fo’ to help clean house, an’ ef she want me, Ah gwine stay right dah twell de house all clean’ up.’ Cause dat a long perambulation down to Mis’ Gilbert’s house, Jedge, an’ ef she ask me to stay a couple o’ days, Ah gwine save mah breakfas’ an’ mah suppah whilst Ah stay down yonder. So Ah go outen de house an’ Ah walk down de street twell Ah come to de gate whut lead up to Silas’ house, an’ Ah walk up de paff, an’ Ah knock on de do’. Nobody say nuffin’! Ah knock ag’in. Nobody say nuffin’! Ah open de do’ gintly, an’ Ah peek in. Ain’ nobody in de shack at all. So Ah steps in, fo’ to get mah pail an’ mah mop an’ mah broom.

“Dab dey set, right by de do’, an’ excipt fo’ dem, dey ain’ nuffin’ in de shack at all but de straw outen Silas he’s bed, an’ dat all scatter aroun’ lak to dry an’ air out. Excipt dey one bed-slat whut Ah calculate Silas he keep handy fo’ to whack at de rats, which am mighty pestiferous about dat shack. So whin Ah seen he done clean up yeverything as neat as a pin, my heart soften unto him. Ah jes gwine feel sorry fo’ him, de leas’ little bit. So Ah gwine look in de cupboard to see ef he got plenty to eat--an’ he ain’ got nuffin’ in de cupboard but a box of matches, an’ dat all! So Ah feel right smart sorry I been scold him lak I do, an’ Ah gwine pick up mah pail an’ mah mop an’ mah broom whin--bang!--de do’ go shut an’ Ah all in de dark.”

“Some one shut the door?” asked the justice.

“_He_ shet de do’!” shouted Sally, shrilly, pointing her finger at the trembling Silas. “He shet de do’, an’ he lock de do’, an’ he start to nail de do’, lak he say he would! Yassah! Ah bang mahsilf ag’inst de do’ an’ Ah yell an’ shout, an’ de do’ don’t budge, ’cause hit locked. An’ all de while--bam! bam! bam!--he nailin’ de do’ from de outside. Ah poun’ wif mah fists an’ Ah peck up mah pail an’ slam at de do’ twell de pail all bus’ to pieces, an’ Ah bang mah mop to pieces, but--bam! bam! bam!--he go on nailin’.”

She paused for breath, and Silas opened his mouth, as if to speak, but closed it again.

“Yassah!” she shrilled, glaring at Silas, “he nail up de do’ so Ah can’t budge hit, an’ whin Ah try de windows, dey nailed up too.”

“There’s two iv thim doors,” explained Flaherty, “an’ both iv thim open outward. He’d nailed sthrips acrost thim. Th’ two windys has wooden shutters, and he’d nailed thim fast.”

“What!” exclaimed Justice Murphy. “He nailed the woman in?”

“He did, sor!”

“But--but this is outrageous!” exclaimed the justice.

All three glared at the dejected Silas, and did not see Noah Prutt as he arose from his chair.

“Make him pay, Jedge! Make him pay!” cried Noah, eagerly.

“Sit ye down!” cried Flaherty, in a voice of thunder, and Noah subsided. On the edge of his chair he nodded like a toy mandarin. He understood that things were going badly for Silas, and that was enough to please him. Sally turned to him and shouted in his ear.

“Shet up an’ stay shet!” she cried. “This is none of yo’ business, Noah. Ah gwine manage this mahsilf!”

The old man smiled and nodded his willingness. As she turned away he touched her on the arm.

“Thutty dollahs,” he said, and nodded and smiled again.

“Thutty nuffin’s!” she muttered. “Ah guess yo’ Honor will know whut Ah ought to get from dat Silas, an’ whut he ought to get from yo’. ’Cause Ah suffer a heap o’ distress of min’ an’ body whilst Ah been shet up in dat shanty dem three days.”

“Three days!” exclaimed the justice.

“Yassah! Ah been nail up in dat shanty three days an’ three nights,” said Sally, “an’ all dat time Ah been pestered an’ annoyed. Ah been sploshed on mah feet an’ Ah been hungry an’ col’, an’ Ah been insulted. Dat Silas he jus’ hong roun’ dat shanty to make me mizzable, but Ah ain’ give in one bit. No, sah! Ah’d a-died fus’. Fus’ off Ah bang on de do’ an’ Ah bang on de windows, an’ Ah keep wahm, an’ whin Ah get col’ Ah pile some straw in de fireplace an’ Ah get dem matches an’ Ah mek me a straw fire. An’ prisintly Ah hear Silas scramble-scramble on de roof. ‘Whut he up to now?’ Ah say; ‘He gwine try climb down de chimbly? Ef he do Ah whack him wid de bed-slat twell he mighty sorry he try dat.’ But he ain’ try hit. No, sah! Splosh! come a pail of wahtah down de chimbly, an’ out go mah fire, an’ mah feet suttinly get sopped. An’ Silas he say, down de chimbly, lak he voice all clog up wif laughin’, ‘Ain’ gone to hebben yit! Ain’ gone to hebben yit!’ an’ splosh! yere come anudder pail of wahtah.”

“Why, this is no case for me,” said the justice. “This man should be bound over to the Grand Jury!”

“Ah don’ care whut yo’ bind him to, so as yo’ bind him good an’ strong,” said Sally, vindictively. “Yevery time Ah try to get wahm by makin’ a fire, down come dat pail of wahtah an’ splosh mah feet, twell Ah think he try to drown me. ‘Ain’ gone to hebben yit!’ he shout’. Hit right col’ in dat shanty, Jedge. Hit pernicious col’. Dat wahtah freeze on de flo’, an’ hit freeze on mah shoes, an’ Ah get hungrier an’ hungrier, an’ Ah shout an’ Ah rage, an’ all he say is, ‘Ain’ gone to hebben yit! Ain’ gone to hebben yit!’ Ah bet he ain’! Whin de time come he gwine somewheres ilse!”

“How did you get out, finally?” asked the justice.

“Ah keep maulin’ at de do’ wif dat bed-slat all de whiles,” said Sally. “Dat a mahty fine piece of bed-slat, dat is. An’ prisintly, whin Ah about to drap wid hunger an’ col’ an’ die where Ah drap, Ah beat a hol’ in de do’. ‘Ain’ gone to hebben yit!’ he ’low, an’ whack at de bed-slat wif a club, but Ah right smart mad, an’ Ah pry an’ Ah wuk, an’ prisintly Ah pry off one board. An’ when he see Ah gwine win out he scoot. Yassah! He scoot. Ah ’low he run away ’cause he afraid, but dass not hit. No, suh! He gwine fotch an ax, fo’ to nail up dat do’ ag’in. So prisintly Ah wuk dat do’ open an’ Ah step out, an’ whut Ah see? Ah see dat Silas a-standin’ yere in de paff, wid he ax in he hand an’ he mouf wide open, lak Ah been a ghos’. ‘Ain’ gone to hebben yit, her?’ Ah say; ‘Well, if yo’ ain’ gone yit, yo’ gwine mighty soon!’ an’ I wint fo’ him wif de bed-slat, an’ he yell lak blazes whilst Ah gwine murder him. An’ dat how-come de pleeceman heah him an’ save he life.”

The justice folded his hands, his fingers working nervously, as if they longed to take hold of the throat of the dispirited prisoner.

“In all my experience,” he said, “this is the most outrageous case I have ever met! I am only sorry I am not the proper official to try this case. I hope this man gets the full penalty of the law. I can’t express--”

He shook his head.

“Whatever possessed you?” he asked the shrinking Silas.

“His Honor is speakin’ t’ ye!” cried Flaherty, poking Silas with his baton. “Spake up whin he addrisses ye! Why did ye do ut?”

“Ah--” began Silas, in a thin, scared voice.

“Sthand up whin ye addriss th’ coort!” said Flaherty, and Silas stood.

As he stood there was nothing about him that suggested the fiery lover. His drooping shoulders and general air of long-permanent shiftlessness almost gave the lie to the idea that he could have taken the trouble to carry a pail of water to a roof. He looked as if to walk at a shambling gait was about the extreme of any exertion of which he was possible.

“Ah didn’ do hit,” he said weakly, and sat down again.

“Now! now!” said Justice Murphy, sharply. “None of that!”

“Sthand up whin his Honor addrisses ye!” said Flaherty.

“Ah don’ know nuffin’ about hit, Jedge,” said Silas, in a squeaky voice as he half lifted himself out of the chair. “Ah’ll tell yo’ all whut Ah know. Ah wint away from mah shanty Monday, ’cause Ah got to yearn a dollar fo’ to buy a white robe fo’ to go to hebben in Tuesday, an’ Ah chop a cord ob wood an’ yearn mah dollar an’ buy mah white robe. An’ dat night all de prophet’s folks spind de night on de hilltop, a-waitin’ fo’ de dawn ob de great day, an’ a-prayin’ an’ a-singin’ an’ a-fastin’. An’ Tuesday Ah spint awn de hilltop like dat, a-prayin’ an’ a-singin’ an’ a-fastin’ twell de sun sh’u’d set. An’ whin de sun set nuffin’ happen. No, sah. Nobody go nowheres, an’ dey ain’ no prophet no mo’, fo’ he wint away wid whut he done collicted up endurin’ de revival. So whin dat come about Ah quite pertickler hungry, an’ Ah go fo’th t’ yearn some money fo’ to get mah food an’ to pay whut Ah owe Noah, ’cause he been pesterin’ me about he rint. So Ah get some wood to chop, an’ I chop hit. An’ bime-by, whin Ah chop all dat wood, Ah guess Ah’ll go home, an’ Ah go home. An’ whin Ah retch mah shanty, Ah see de do’ bruk, an’ somebody a-yammerin’ on hit, an’ whilst Ah look, out sprong dis Sally Prutt an’ whack me on de haid wid a bed-slat, an’ holler, ‘Ain’ gone to hebben yit! Ain’ gone to hebben yit!’ lak she done gwine crazy, an’ ebbery time she whack she holler, an’ ebbery time she holler she whack. So I gwine get away from dere quick, an’ whin Ah run, she run, an’ she shore gwine murder me, ef dish yere pleeceman am’ come an’ stop her.”

“Just so!” said Justice Murphy, sarcastically. “And you were not near the shanty at all? And you did not nail this woman in it? And you did not pour water down the chimney?”

“No, sah,” said Silas, in a frightened voice.

“Oh, you brack liah!” said Sally, angrily.

“And I suppose you never said, ‘Ain’t gone to heaven yet!’ did you?” said the judge. “You never heard those words, did you?”

Silas looked from side to side, and his lower lip trembled. His back took a more disconsolate droop. There are no words in the English language to describe how utterly downcast and hopeless and woe-saturated he looked. Milton came near it when he said something about “Below the lowest depths still lower depths--” In woe Silas was in depths a couple of stories lower than that.

“Well?” said the justice, sharply.

“Answer his Honor whin he addrisses ye!” shouted Flaherty, and Silas moistened his lips and gulped.

“No, sah! Ah--Ah ain’ hear them wuds perzackly, nevah befo’. Ah ain’ heah, ‘Ain’ _gone_ to hebben.’ Ah jes heah ‘Ain’ _gwine_ to hebben.’”

“Oh, you did hear that, did you?” said the justice. “Who said that?”

Silas stared at his boot. He blinked a couple of times, and then spoke.

“Ol’ Noah, he say thim wuds,” he said. The judge turned to the old Negro on the chair in the front row, and pointed at him.

“That Noah?” he asked. “Is that the man?”

“Yassah,” said Silas, sadly. “Dass de man. He say hit.”

Old Noah, seeing that the conversation was veering his way, arose and came forward, his hand behind his ear and expectation in his face.

“Thutty dollahs, Jedge!” he said eagerly. “Dass de right amount. Thutty dollahs.”

“You go set down!” yelled his wife in his ear, but the old man shook his head.

“Ain’ he gwine pay hit?” he asked resentfully. “Ain’ de jedge gwine _mek_ him pay hit? Whaffo’ Ah nail up de shack ef he ain’ gwine pay hit?”

“Whut yo’ palaver about? Nail up de shack! _You_ ain’ nail up no shack. Dat no-’count Silas _he_ nail up de shack,” shouted Sally.

The old man nodded his head and grinned.

“Yas, dasso! Dasso! Ah nail up de shack, Jedge,” he chuckled. “Ah nail him in. Yassah, Ah done jes so.”

“_Him?_” shouted the justice, “you mean _her_?”

“Yassah, Ah nail _him_ in,” said Noah.

“_You_ did?” shouted the justice.

“Ah--Ah beg pawdon, Jedge,” said the old man. “Ah cawn’t heah as--as well as Ah used to heah. Ah cawn’t hear whisperin’ tones no moah. Ah--Ah got to beg yo’ to speak jes a leetle mite louder.”

“WHY DID YOU NAIL HIM IN THE SHACK?” shouted Justice Murphy at the top of his voice.

“Why, ’cause he won’ pay me de rint,” said Noah, as if it was a thing every one should have known. “Ain’ Sally been jes tol’ yo’? Ah surmise she done confabulate about that all de whiles she talkin’. Yo’ mus’ scuse her, Jedge. Whin de womens staht talkin’, nobuddy know _whut_ dey talk about. Dey jes talk fo’ de exumcise. Mah secon’ wife, which am de las’ but one befo’ Ah tuck Sally--”

“Look here!” shouted Justice Murphy. “Why did you nail him in the shack?”

“Zack?” said the old man, doubtfully. “No, sah, he name Silas. Dass him yondah. I arsk him fo’ de rint, an’ I _beg_ him fo’ de rint, an’ I argyfy about dat rint twell Ah jes wohn out, an’ Ah don’ git no rint at all. So bime-by erlong come dish yere prophet whut you heah about, maybe. Ah ain’ tek no stock in dat prophet-man at all! No, sah! Ah ’s a good Baptis’ an’ Ah don’ truckle to none o’ dem come-easy, go-easy, folks like dat. Ah stay ’way from him, an’ Ah tell Sally she stay way likewise. But dis yere Silas he get de prophet-man’s religion bad. Yassah. He ’low he gwine to hebben las’ Tuesday whin all de res’ ob de gang go. Ah reckon he ain’ gwine go, ’cause Ah feel dey ain’ none ob dem gwine go, but Ah can’t be shore. Mos’ anything li’ble to happen whin times so bad like dey is. So Ah projeck up to Silas an’ Ah say to him, ‘Ef yo’ gwine to hebben nex’ Tuesday, yo’ bettah pay me de rint befo’ yo’ go.’ Dass whut Ah say, Jedge. An’--an’--an’ dass reason-able. ’Cause ef he gwine to hebben Tuesday, Ah ain’ gwine hab no chance _to_ collict dat rint come Winsday. No, sah.”

“Then what?” shouted the justice.

“Nuffin’!” said Noah. “Nuffin’ _at_ all. He say, ‘Scuse me, Noah, but Ah so full ob preparations fo’ de great evint Ah ain’ got time to yearn no money to pay de rint.’ An’ Ah say, ‘Silas, Ah want mah rint!’ So, bime-by, whin Monday mawrnin’ come erlong, Sally she gwine away to do a job o’ work, an’ Ah meyander ober to Silas’ shack, an’ Ah got mah hatchit an’ mah nails, whut Ah gwine mind de fince. An’ whin Ah come to de shack All hear de squawk ob a board in de flo’ an’ Ah know Silas he in de shack, an’ Ah slam de do’ an’ Ah nail up de do’ an’ he carrye on scandalous, but he can’t git yout. An’ Ah don’ care whut he say, ’cause Ah can’t heah ef he cuss or ef he palaver.

“’Cause Ah ain’ gwine hab no tinint go to hebben like dat whin he owe me rint _twell_ he pay de rint. So Ah reckon Ah leave him dere twell de gwine is all gone, an’ Ah ain’ worried erbout Silas gwine alone by hisse’f. He ain’ got de get-up to do nuffin’ alone by hisse’f. So Ah leab him dah twell he natchully bus’ out.”

“You tried to starve him,” shouted the justice. “You threw water down the chimney.”

“Dass jes a _pre_-caution, Jedge, dass jes a _pre_-caution,” said the old Negro. “Ah got mah doubts erbout dat ol’ Obediah prophet-man whut come from nowhares. Whin Ah see de smoke a-risin’ from de chimbly, Ah speculate ef et hebben whar de prophet-man gwine tek they-all, or ef he gwine tek dem ilsewhars, an’ Ah cogitate how maybe Silas gwine _es_cape in de flame ob de fiah. Dey yain’t nuffin’ like good ol’ Baptis’ water fo’ to fight debbil’s fiah, so Ah fotch a couple o’ pail’ ob wahtah, an’ Ah po’ hit down de chimbly, an’ Ah say, ‘Yo’ ain’ gwine to hebben yit! Yo’ ain’ gwine to hebben yit!’ Yassah. An’ he ain’!”

He chuckled with glee, but at the same moment he caught a glimpse of Sally’s face, and his grin gave way to a look of blank surprise. Slowly and carefully Sally was rolling up her sleeves, and her eyes glittered menacingly. Flaherty tapped her on the shoulder.

“None iv that here!” he said sternly.

The justice looked from one to the other of the parties before him, closed an impressive-looking law book with a bang, and stood up, feeling for his tobacco-pipe in his hip pocket.

“Flaherty,” he said slowly, “this is not a case for this court. It seems in the nature of a domestic misunderstanding. Under ordinary circumstances,” he added, pressing tobacco into the pipe with his thumb, “I should undertake to explain to all parties just what happened and how it happened and why it happened but--” he looked at old Noah and shook his head--“there is nothing in the statutes of the State of Iowa compelling a justice of the peace of the County of Riverbank, City of Riverbank and Township of Riverbank, to shout that loud and that long. Case dismissed!”

Flaherty herded the three parties out of the room and the justice lighted his pipe.

“Whaffo’ Ah ain’ git mah thutty dollahs?” he heard Uncle Noah ask in the hall. “Wha’ we gwine?”

“Ah tell yo’ wha’ yo’ ain’ gwine!” he heard Sally shout. “You ain’ gwine to hebben yit! But yo’ gwine to wish yo’ was gwine ’fo’ Ah git froo wif yo’!”

“Flaherty,” said his Honor, tilting back comfortably and blowing a cloud of blue smoke toward the ceiling, “go out and warn that woman to keep the peace.”

“I will,” said Flaherty, “but can ye ixpict ut iv her, Murphy?”

SIERRA MADRE

BY HENRY VAN DYKE

O mother mountains! billowing far to the snow-lands,
Robed in aërial amethyst, silver, and blue,
Why do ye look so proudly down on the lowlands?
What have their gardens and groves to do with you?

Theirs is the languorous charm of the orange and myrtle,
Theirs are the fruitage and fragrance of Eden of old,--
Broad-boughed oaks in the meadows fair and fertile,
Dark-leaved orchards gleaming with globes of gold.

You, in your solitude standing, lofty and lonely,
Bear neither garden nor grove on your barren breasts;
Rough is the rock-loving growth of your cañons, and only
Storm-battered pines and fir-trees cling to your crests.

Why are ye throned so high and arrayed in splendor
Richer than all the fields at your feet can claim?
What is your right, ye rugged peaks, to the tender
Queenly promise and pride of the mother-name?

Answered the mountains, dim in the distance dreaming:
“Ours are the forests that treasure the riches of rain;
Ours are the secret springs and the rivulets streaming
Softly down through the manifold bloom of the plain.

“Vain were the toiling of men in the dust of the dry land,
Vain were the plowing and planting in waterless fields,
Save for the life-giving currents we send from the sky-land,
Save for the fruit our embrace with the storm-cloud yields.”

O mother mountains, Madre Sierra, I love you!
Rightly you reign o’er the vale that your bounty fills,--
Kissed by the sun, or with big, bright stars above you,--
I murmur your holy name and lift up mine eyes to the hills.

THE BORROWED LOVER

BY L. FRANK TOOKER

Author of “Kerrigan’s Christmas Sermon,” “Under Rocking Skies,” etc.

“’Tis this way with women,” declared Kerrigan: “some of thim will desave ye, and some will not, but ye will niver know which till ut ’s done; for they’re all alike in the use of their eyes and tongues, and the proof of the puddin’ ’s in the ’atun’. Mind thot, laad.”

It was Sunday morning, and Kerrigan was leaning over the rail, looking dreamily off across the waste of piled lumber to the spires and roofs of the city. The sun shone brightly; the yellow flood of the river lipped softly the barnacled piles of the wharf; the hush of the Sabbath lay over all. Nicolao had just gone over the side of the vessel for an all-day outing; but he turned at Kerrigan’s warning. He waved his hand airily.

“Tha’ ’s alla right,” he replied. “Eet ees the gamble, yas--what yo’ expec’. So-long! Adios!”

“Staay where ye arre,” commanded Kerrigan, sternly. “I’m goun’ wid ye. ’Tis a guardeen ye waant, ye light-mind child of misfortune. Wait till I change me clothes.”

Twenty minutes later they crossed the wharf and passed cityward, something of Kerrigan’s grandfatherly air of protection dropping away at every step.

“’Tis good to be young,” he said; “I mind I was young wance mesilf. Where are ye goun’, laad?”

“I hava the friend,” Nicolao replied; “his name is Porfirio--Portuguese, weeth the nice shop, nice fam’ly, nice daughter, yo’ know.”

“I do,” said Kerrigan, significantly; “ye’d niver go ilse. I’ll attind ye for yer own safety. ’Tis on me mind.”

At the crossing they boarded a trolley, for the sun was hot and Nicolao in haste; and going well forward, they seated themselves in the car. As Kerrigan glanced down to return the change of his fare to his pocket, he saw two hands meekly folded in the lap of the woman who sat at his left. The hands held a breviary and a handkerchief. He glanced up at the face of the holder--the fresh Irish face of a young woman.

He sighed and looked away; he knew not why, but for an instant it gave him a desolate feeling of homesickness. Then Nicolao began to talk, and Kerrigan forgot the girl.

But presently she left the car, and as she rose to her feet, he saw a handkerchief flutter to the floor. He leaned forward quickly, and, picking it up, hurried after his neighbor; but others had risen between them, and she had reached the street and was stepping up to the curb when he touched her arm.

“Ye dropped it, _acushla_,” he said, and turning quickly, she glanced at his outstretched hand.

“Then ’twas a miracle,” she said, “and belongs to the church, not to me.” She held up her own hand, in which safely reposed the breviary and the handkerchief. Kerrigan stared.

“Wid me two eyes I saw it drop as ye got up,” he declared.

“I had but one,” replied the girl. “Are your two eyes strong enough to see that I’ve got it still? And you’ve lost your car.”

“I’ve lost more--me good name,” Kerrigan said. “I’ve stolen the handkerchief.”

“Then you’d better pray for repentance,” she advised. “I’ll give you a hint: the church is before you. Good-by, and thank you--for nothing.” Laughing, she hurried away up the steps of the church.

Kerrigan hesitatingly watched her go, then walked to a side porch and sat down.

“I’ll tak’ the hint to this extint,” he muttered, and patiently waited through the hour of service; but as the audience streamed forth at the close he returned to the main door and stood watching.

But suddenly he felt a touch on his arm and heard a voice say:

“I’ll be going home now.”

Startled, he looked down into the face of the girl. It was very demure, though flushed.

“Ah, ’tis ye thot’s repinted--of yer haard heart,” he said. “Ye’ve come back to tell me so.”

“I’ve repented of naught but my sins,” she replied, “and a hard heart is not one of them. But I’d borrow you for a little, if you have nothing better to do.”

“I’ll have nothing better to do all through purgatory, which will be hiven to me if ye’re wid me,” he replied. “And there’s another miracle.”

She laughed.

“I’d not care to keep you so long.”

“Thin I’ll get me hell first, which is wrong,” he answered sadly. “I tho’t ye were orthodox.”

“I’m--” She pressed his arm in warning as a man passed them rapidly, turning to look back into their faces. He was weazen, middle-aged, with a wry face.

“That’s the reason for borrowing you,” she explained in a low voice.

“Thot’s not a reason; ut’s an apology,” Kerrigan said tartly. “Ut’s a monkey, not a mon.”

“He’s always hanging about,” she replied. “My father and mother favor him; he’s got money.”

“Ut’s a curse,” Kerrigan declared solemnly.

“So the rich tell me,” said the girl with a laugh.

“I’m rich mesilf while I have ye,” he said.

“You’re only borrowed,” she warned him. “Are you a masterful man?”

“I’m meek as Moses,” he assured her. “A child could lade me.”

“Oh, then you won’t do at all!” she cried. “I thought you were masterful by your looks. My father and mother are meek, but set in their ways, and I’m tired of it. Now, a man who’d knock me about and _them_--”

“Ye waant me to knock thim about--yer father and mither?”

“I want them to think you would,” she corrected him. “’T would be good for them. But of course you’d not do it; you’d only be soft-spoken and blarneying.”

“I’m as gintle as a cow by nature,” he assured her; “but I’d sell me birthright to plaze ye. Now tak’ me home wid ye and prove ut.”

“’T is worth trying,” she replied. “You’ll stay to dinner? I’ve taken to you, you know.”

“I accipt both the dinner and the compliment,” he answered, “and thank ye kindly for both.”

In the porch of their small house near the wall of the cemetery of the city her father and mother sat waiting as they entered the gate.

“My friend, Mr.----” The girl hesitated.

“Kerrigan--Thomas Kerrigan,” that gentleman said promptly.

“My father and mother,” continued the girl. “Reilly’s their name. The gentleman was very kind. He lost his car to return my handkerchief.”

Her father, a weather-beaten little man, looked Kerrigan over coolly as he nodded.

“Faith!” he said at last, “I’m thinkin’ he’s likely to lose his supper before he returns it; he’s got it in his hand yet.”

The girl laughed.

“It was not mine, you know,” she explained.

“I don’t see the joke,” her father said irritably. “What’s all the stir, Kate?”

“Ye’ll see ut in time,” Kerrigan replied with composure. “’T is like this: she liked me betther nor the bit of white rag, so she took me instid.”

“She was always greedy,” replied Reilly; “she’d take the biggest lump iv’ry time, not countin’ the quality.” He turned to his wife. “Do ye mind thot, Mary?”

“I don’t understand a’ the nonsince,” replied his wife, a meek little wisp of a woman. She rose and went into the house, followed by Kate.

Kerrigan was looking complacently about him, and now said:

“Ye have the cimetery handy, Reilly.”

“I need to,” the old man replied. “I worrk in it.”

“’T is the fine job,” declared Kerrigan. “Ye can feel all the time how much betther off ye are than yer neighbors. I doubt not ut makes ye consated.”

“There’s thim that are livin’ that make me feel the same,” Reilly said significantly. He glared at Kerrigan, who nodded.

“’T is a habit and grows on ye, like drinkun’,” Kerrigan declared. “What do ye do to cure ut?”

“I choose me own fri’nds mostly,” Reilly said tartly. “Belikes ye will take the hint.”

“I do,” replied Kerrigan. “’T is the raison ye worrk in the cimetery, I tak’ ut; the talk’s wan-sided. Ye’d like thot.”

Kate came out and, seeing her father glowering, sat down by Kerrigan, carelessly placing her hand on the back of his chair.

“My father has taken to you,” she said with a coquettish glance. “He’ll monopolize you. I’ll not see you at all. I’m fair green with the jealousy.”

“Good Lord!” sputtered the old man, and glared at her, but she seemed not to hear or see.

“We’ll go for a walk after dinner,” she went on--“in the cemetery. It’s the only place I can get you away from him; for he works there in the week, and he’d not like to spoil his holiday by seeing the place.”

“’T will be a sore thing to part from him,” answered Kerrigan, “for we’re like brithers alriddy, barrun’ the size of us and the looks; but I’d not like to remind him of worrk, so we’ll go, as ye say.”

“’T is the nice, quiet place for young people,” Kate said and laughed. “You’ll find them all about, walking arm and arm, and sitting on the benches in the shade, hand in hand. They’ll not notice us at all.”

“Thin we’ll not notice thim,” answered Kerrigan, with good-natured generosity; but Reilly rose up and stormed into the house, slamming the door.

He ate his dinner rapidly and in silence, and left the table long before the others, and when, ready for their walk, Kate and Kerrigan appeared in the porch, he sat there grim and silent, wearing his coat and hat.

Kate showed her surprise.

“Why, Father, have you the chill?” she asked anxiously. “Are you cold?”

“Wan worrd more, me girl, and I’ll fetch ye a clip on the side of the head, old as ye are,” Reilly said savagely.

“You’d never do the like of such a queer thing,” she exclaimed--“never. And you know me Tom would not stand for that at all. Would you?” She looked trustingly up into Kerrigan’s face.

“’T would hurt me more nor him to tak’ a little, small mon across me knee,” Kerrigan replied, “but ’t would be both me duty and right. But he’s only jokun’, me dear. He’s laughun’ in his sleeve this minut’.”

Reilly eyed him with a look of ferocity.

“Tin years younger, ye lump,” he said, “and small as I am, I’d fetch ye the mate of it over the jaw, big as ye are.”

“Hiven be thanked for the tin years, thin!” exclaimed Kerrigan, piously.

“Yes, Heaven be thanked!” echoed Kate. “’T would be a sore thing for a loving girl to see her old father in the hands of a strong man. You’ll always be tender to him, won’t you?”

“Always,” promised Kerrigan--“tender, but firm.”

“Thank you,” she said softly. “I knew you would. But good-by, Father.”

“Ye can’t go,” snapped Reilly. “Into the house wid yez!”

“What!” she cried. “And me of age, and earning me living these five years!” She threw back her head and walked toward the gate, with her father following after.

“Thin I’ll go wid yez, ye ungrateful girl,” Reilly declared.

“Thin take me ither arm,” said Kerrigan, with a solicitous air; but Reilly stepped back, waving him off.

“Go on, ye lump!” he commanded.

“Aye, ye know best,” Kerrigan agreed. “’T is more like a marriage procission yer way.”

Kate laughed.

“For shame,” she cried, “to talk of marriage so soon! I’ve known you but four hours.”

“What’s time to the lovun’ hearrt thot knows uts own mate?” asked Kerrigan.

“True,” she replied; “it’s nothing at all.”

“If ye’ve no respict for yer owld father, ye hussy,” Reilly hissed close at her ear, “think shame to yersilf for the bowldniss of yez.”

“To think you’d put the black name of boldness on your own daughter!” Kate cried, turning angrily. “I’ll not listen to you.” She flounced up the road.

Reilly followed. He passed into the cemetery behind them and stubbornly kept near; but as they turned into an avenue of live-oaks, he caught sight of a slender young man who stood in a path and watched Kate and Kerrigan go by. Reilly beckoned to him, and the young man came hesitatingly forward.

“And how are ye the day?” Reilly said genially, and extended his hand. In manifest surprise the young man shook hands and said:

“Well, Mr. Reilly, as the world goes. And how are you?”

“Fine, Michael,” Reilly replied, “though troubled a small bit.” He glanced ahead at the pair, who had not looked back. The young man’s eyes also followed them.

“Aye, it’s the world’s way,” he agreed with a somber air. “It’s up and down with us all.”

“It is, Michael Cassidy,” replied Reilly. “But I’ve not seen ye for the long time.”

As Michael had been forbidden to come to the house, he deemed it politic to make no reply. His silence left Reilly at a loss, and presently he said with a melancholy shake of the head:

“It’s God’s truth, as they say, that a mon niver knows what’s good for him.”

Michael looked at him inquiringly.

“Are you speaking of yourself, Mr. Reilly?” he asked.

“I am,” Reilly confessed. “Here was I keepin’ a fine lad like yersilf from me house, and who should me daughter bring into it but thot big lump yon! Bedad! he fills the whole place!”

“Lord keep us all!” exclaimed Michael.

“’T is well said, Michael Cassidy,” replied Reilly. “’T is the bitter, true worrd.”

“But not past mending, Mr. Reilly,” Michael said with a sly glance. “’T is only to let me come back and send the lump flying.”

“Flyin’ is it?” exclaimed Reilly, wrathfully. “Faith! he flies like a tree.”

“’T is your own house,” Michael replied. “You have only to say the word go. I know how it sounds myself.”

“Have I? ’T is all ye know. I give him a couple or three hints of the same, and he was for takin’ me over his knee--me, the father of me own daughter. And what did she do but egg him on!”

“Aye, that’s bad.”

“It is so.”

“If you could manage to let him do it,” Michael said thoughtfully, “and then call the police for assault, you’d have him fine. ’T would shame Kate. ’T would be bad for him.”

“Would it?” Reilly said with scorn. “And how would it be for me in me owld age to be taken across a mon’s knee? Tell me thot.”

Michael snickered, but quickly changed his snicker to a cough under Reilly’s wrathful look.

“You’re right, Mr. Reilly,” he said soberly; “’t would make angels weep.”

“I’d not distress the howly wans to thot extint,” Reilly declared. He was silent a moment, then said with a brightening face: “If you’d pass a scrappy worrd wid him yersilf, Michael, and take a clip or two of his fist, belikes Kate would take pity on ye and--”

“The pity of a woman is a poor tale,” Michael replied hastily. “Has Kate taken a liking to him?”

“A liking to him, is it!” exclaimed Reilly. “She makes me fair blush for her bowldniss.”

“Then she’s given me up, and it’s no use at all,” Michael said with a groan.

“Well, if she’s given ye up, ye’ve nothing to lose by me plan,” argued Reilly. “She might take ye back.”

“And be where I was before,” objected Michael, “and that was nowhere at all, with you against me. That’s the plain word between friends, Mr. Reilly, and no harm meant.”

“But all that’s done and gone, as I told ye,” Reilly irritably replied. “I’m for ye now, Michael. ’T is her pity that’s the only way to win her now.”

“Faith! I think I’d get it,” answered Michael, dolefully; “the man’s as broad as a house.”

“Well, if it comes to the blows bechune ye,” Reilly said, “just grapple wid him, and I’ll give him a little small clip on the back of the head wid me stick.” He gripped his cane hard as he added grimly: “Bedad! I’ll put me heart in it, and that’s no lie. Now come on and try me plan.”

But Michael still held back.

“What’s changed you all at once?” he asked. “You never liked me.”

“That lump,” said Reilly. “He’ll marry her out of hand before their walk’s over if ye do not stop him.”

“And if I do stop him, will I have her myself?” Michael asked.

“Ye will,” Reilly promised. “I’ve passed me worrd.”

“Then God be with us all, and here goes!” said Michael.

They quickened their pace and caught up with the pair, and Kate, looking back, stopped.

“I thought you’d forgotten us, Father,” she said with a laugh. “And is it Mr. Cassidy with you, the great stranger!” She introduced him to Kerrigan as a “friend of the family,” and they walked on together, Reilly straggling on ahead, leading the way toward his tool-house, in a lonely part of the cemetery.

“It’s the long time since you’ve been to see us, Mr. Cassidy,” Kate said at last.

“It is,” Michael replied. “The place is fairly overrun. It’s the queer lot you have hanging about.”

“Overrun, do you say!” exclaimed Kate. “There’s not been a soul there in weeks.”

Michael laughed disagreeably.

“It’s not an hour since I saw this wind-bag come out of the door,” he replied in a loud voice. Then he put his hand to his mouth, saying softly: “When you strike, strike quick and hard, Mr. Kerrigan. I’d like to have it over. And look out for the old man’s stick.” Kerrigan grinned.

Kate, on Kerrigan’s left, had not heard the aside, and she grew pale. She leaned forward now to say sweetly:

“And how are your father and mother--Michael? Are they well?”

“They are,” Michael answered; “but a bit low in spirit. I’d take it kindly if you’d parade the big monkey you’ve got with you before their gate. Belikes it would hearten them up; they’re fond of a show.”

They heard Reilly chuckle.

“Aye, Michael’s the b’y,” he muttered, and gripped his stick hard.

Kerrigan stopped short.

“We’ll go now,” he said stiffly.

“With all my heart,” retorted Michael, and turned back. But Kate caught Kerrigan’s arm, pulling him forward.

“Would you leave a girl in the middle of a walk to go following after a joker like Michael?” she cried. “Sure, he was always up to his tricks. It’s some little, small joke on his father, the poor old man. I’ll have naught to do with it.”

The two men stood glaring at each other, the grimness of Kerrigan’s face being lighted, however, as he stood with his back to Kate, by a sly wink.

“Is ut a joke?” he demanded.

“Would you call the lady a liar?” Michael asked hotly. “She says it’s a joke; and if she says it’s one, it is, even if it isn’t. Are your manners as awry as your face?”

“I niver quarrel before ladies, but we’ll take a walk soon and try to match faces,” Kerrigan said significantly.

“You couldn’t please me more if you asked me to your wake,” Michael airily replied.

“Oh, Father, there’s your little workhouse,” nervously called Kate. “I left something in it when I brought you your dinner-pail Thursday. I’ll get it now, if you have your key, though I’m thinking you’ve forgotten it, as usual.”

“I niver forget it,” retorted Reilly; and to prove his contention, led the way to the tool-house.

It was a stout little stone house with a strong door, and as Reilly opened it, he stepped in, looking back at the others with a sour smile.