into a run, but dared not. He
believed his tormentor was following so as to keep him in range.

It was hardly to be expected that he should go over the fence with a
dance step, but he reflected that he could resume his labors immediately
he dropped to the ground on the other side and faithfully maintain it to
the next boundary. But there was risk and he was afraid to incur it.
While still shifting his feet with an energy that caused him to breathe
fast, he approached the obstruction. Partly turning his head while
toiling as hard as ever, he called:

"I'll have to stop a minute till I climb over, but I'll resoom dancing as
soon as I hit the ground on the other side agin. Is that all right?"

There was no reply and he repeated the question in a louder voice. Still
hearing nothing, he ventured to look back. The young man was nowhere in
sight. Truth to tell, no sooner had Mr. Buxton begun his humorous
exhibition than the youth, vainly trying to suppress his mirth, flung
down the gun, turned about and entered the wood toward which he was
running when so abruptly checked by his pursuer.

"Wal, I'll be hanged!" was the disgusted exclamation of the panting
Buxton. "That's the meanest trick I ever had played on me. The scand'lous
villain oughter be hung. What a sight I made! I'm mighty glad no one seen
me."

In his relief, he did not notice a vague form which flitted along the
edge of the wood, so close to the trees that the shadow screened it from
clear view. Had Mr. Buxton noted it he might not have felt certain that
no one witnessed his unrivalled performance.

He was so tired out from his tremendous efforts that he stood awhile
mopping his moist forehead with his handkerchief while he regained his
wind.

"It's lucky he didn't foller and make me dance all the way home. Never
could have done it. Would have dropped dead, I am that blamed tired."

He leaned against the fence while recovering from his unwonted exercise.
Naturally he believed the young man who had used him so ill had carried
away his weapon beyond possibility of recovery.

"And I paid twenty-five dollars for it in Portland," he bitterly mused.
"It looks to me that as a hunter of post office robbers I ain't of much
account."

He resumed his walk homeward, going slowly, carefully climbing the
obstructions in his path and studying what explanation to make to his
friends for the loss of his valuable piece. He might manage it with all
except his wife and so