ndignant at the commission of an atrocious crime. He might order them
to be fired upon, and the order perhaps would be obeyed. One, two, a
dozen might be killed, and technically again they would have deserved
their fate; yet all that perfectly legal slaughter would be--for what?
To save, for a time only, the worthless life of a wretch who rightly
merited any doom the future might have in store for him. So the sheriff
wrung his hands, bewailed the fact that such a crisis should have
arisen during his term of office, and did nothing; while the clamours
of the mob grew so loud that the trembling prisoner in his cell heard
it, and broke out into a cold sweat when he quickly realised what it
meant. He was to have a dose of justice in the raw.

"What shall I do?" asked the gaoler. "Give up the keys?"

"I don't know what to do," cried the sheriff, despairingly. "Would
there be any use in speaking to them, do you think?"

"Not the slightest."

"I ought to call on them to disperse, and if they refused I suppose I
should have them fired on."

"That is the law," answered the gaoler, grimly.

"What would you do if you were in my place?" appealed the sheriff. It
was evident the stern Roman Father was not elected by popular vote in
_that_ county.

"Me?" said the gaoler. "Oh, I'd give 'em the keys, and let 'em hang
him. It'll save you the trouble. If you have 'em fired on, you're sure
to kill the very men who are at this moment urging 'em to go home.
There's always an innocent man in a mob, and he's the one to get hurt
every time."

"Well then, Perkins, you give them the keys; but for Heaven's sake
don't say I told you. They'll be sorry for this to-morrow. You know I'm
elected, but you're appointed, so you don't need to mind what people
say."

"That's all right," said the gaoler, "I'll stand the brunt."

But the keys were not given up. The clamour had ceased. A young man
with pale face and red eyes stood on the top of the stone wall that
surrounded the gaol. He held up his hand and there was instant silence.
They all recognised him as Bowen, the night operator, to whom
_she_ had been engaged.

"Gentlemen," he cried--and his clear voice reached the outskirts of the
crowd--"don't do it. Don't put an everlasting stain on the fair name of
our town. No one has ever been lynched in this county and none in this
State, so far as I know. Don't let us begin it. If I thought the
miserable scoundrel inside would escape--if I thought