The ears of Cap'n Sproul, buzzing with his emotions, caught only a
few words, nor grasped any part of the meaning. But the sonorous
"United States of America" chilled his blood, and the word "guilty"
made his teeth chatter.

He felt an imperious need of getting out of that room for a moment--of
getting where he could think for a little while, out from under the
starings of those three solemn men.

"I want to--I want to--" he floundered; "I would like to get on my
shoes and my co't and--and--I'll be right back. I won't try to--I'll
be right back, I say."

Mr. Nute suspended his reading, looked over his spectacles, and gave
the required permission. Perhaps it occurred to his official sense
that a bit more dignified attire would suit the occasion better. A
flicker of gratification shone on his face at the thought that the
Cap'n was so nobly and graciously rising to the spirit of the thing.

"It's come, Louada Murilla--it's come!" gulped Cap'n Sproul, as he
staggered into the kitchen, where his wife cowered in a corner. "He's
readin' a warrant. He's even got the Portygee's name. My Gawd,
they'll hang me! I can't prove northin'."

"Oh, Aaron," sobbed his wife, and continued to moan. "Oh, Aaron--"
with soft, heartbreaking cluckings.

"Once the law of land-piruts gets a bight 'round ye, ye never git
away from it," groaned the Cap'n. "The law sharks is always waitin'
for seafarin' men. There ain't no hope for me."

His wife had no encouragement to offer.

"Murder will out, Aaron," she quaked. "And they've sent three
constables."

"Them other two--be they--?"

"They're constables."

"There ain't no hope. And it shows how desp'rit' they think I be.
It shows they're bound to have me. It's life and death, Louada Murilla.
If I don't git anything but State Prison, it's goin' to kill me, for
I've lived too free and open to be penned up at my time o' life. It
ain't fair--it ain't noways fair!" His voice broke. "It was all a
matter of discipline. But you can't prove it to land-sharks. If they
git me into their clutches I'm a goner."

His pistols hung on the wall where Louada Murilla had suspended them,
draped with the ribbons of peace.

"There's only one thing to do," he whispered, huskily, pointing at
the weapons with quivering finger. "I'll shoot 'em in the legs, jest
to hold 'em up. I'll git to salt water. I know skippers that will
take me aboard, even if they have to stand off the whole United States.
I've got frie