rd of the premises. Mike
was at his heels and shouted:

"Stop! stop! or I'll blow ye into smithereens! I've got a double barreled
cannon wid me, and if ye want to save yer life, s'render before I touch
her off!"

Perhaps if the fugitive had not been in so wild a panic he would have
given himself up, for no man willingly invites the discharge of a deadly
weapon a few paces behind him. But the youth was bent on escape if the
feat were possible and ran with the vigor of desperation.

Less than a hundred yards over the garden beds and grass took the fellow
to the paling boundary over which he leaped like a greyhound. Mike would
have done the same, but feared it was too much for him. Moreover, his
short legs could not carry him as fast as those of the fleeing one. The
pursuer rested a hand on the palings and went over without trouble. By
that time the fugitive was a goodly distance off in the act of clearing a
second fence. In dread lest he should get away, Mike called:

"Have sinse, ye lunkhead! I don't want to kill ye, but hanged if I don't,
if ye fail to lay down yer arms."

The appeal like all that had preceded it was unheeded. The burglar must
have taken heart from the fact that his pursuer had already held his fire
so long. Running with unusual speed, he took advantage of the shadow
offered by several back buildings and continued steadily to gain. When he
made a quick turn and whisked out of sight, the exasperated Mike dropped
to a rapid walk.

"Arrah, now, if this owld gun was only in shape! there wouldn't be any
sich race as this, as Brian O'Donovan said--phwat's that?"

When within twenty feet of a small barn, a burly man stepped out of the
gloom and with a large gun levelled gruffly commanded:

"Throw up your arms or I'll let moonlight through you!"

"I don't see any room for argyment, as Jed Mitchell said whin----"

"Up with your hands! and drop that gun!" thundered the other, and Mike
let the old rifle fall to his feet and reached up as if trying to hold
the moon in place. Which incident requires an explanation.

Gerald Buxton, the father of Jim, had no sooner heard the story of his
boy than he decided, as had been related, that something was wrong at the
post office. He had read of the many robberies in southern Maine during
the preceding summer, else he might not have been so quick to reach a
conclusion. He woke his wife, told her his belief and then took down his
shotgun from over the deer's antler