had held him
up, but there was no gainsaying the argument brought to bear against him.
He remained with hands uplifted, awaiting the will of his captor.

"So you're one of those post office robbers," said Mr. Buxton, partly
lowering his weapon.

"Not that I know of," replied Mike, beginning to scent the truth.

"Have you a pistol?"

"The only deadly wippon I have is me pocketknife, with its two blades
broke and the handle being lost some time since."

"Where is the rest of your gang?" demanded the man, stepping closer to
the youth.

"The two frinds that I have are wid the widder Mrs. Friestone, doing
their best to entertain the leddy and her daughter, while I started out
to chase one of the spalpeens that run too fast for me to catch."

Mr. Buxton stepped still nearer. He was becoming doubtful.

"Who the mischief are you, anyway?"

"Mike Murphy, born in Tipperary, in the County of Tipperary, Ireland, and
lately, arrove in Ameriky."

"What are you doing here?"

"Standing still for the time, as Pat Mulrooney said whin the byes tied
him to the gate post and wint off and left him."

"Ain't you one of those post office robbers?"

The question told Mike the whole truth. It was a clever trick that had
been played upon him, and his musical laugh rang out on the still night.

"What made ye have that opinion?"

"I just met a young chap the other side of this barn, and when I stopped
him he said he was running away from an enemy."

"Which the same was the thruth."

"And that one of the gang was chasing him, meaning to shoot him."

"It's mesilf that would have shot if I'd had a gun wid a conscience, fur
I catched the spalpeen when he was opening the safe of Widder Friestone,
and I made after him; but most persons can run faster than mesilf, owing
to me short legs, and he was laving me behind, whin ye interfared."

"Do you mean to tell me that first fellow was one of the burglars?" asked
the astounded Mr. Buxton.

"As sure as ye are standing there admiring me looks."

"Confound the rapscallion! I'll get him yet!" and the irate citizen
dashed off with the resolution, to put it mildly, of correcting the error
he had made.

CHAPTER XIX

IN THE NICK OF TIME

Standing in the darkness of the upper front room, stealthily watching the
mysterious stranger on the other side of the street in the shadow of the
elm, and knowing that burglars were at work below stairs--the nerves of
mother and daughter and