orders to go ahead."

"Tiger, hey?" remarked the Cap'n, looking him up and down. "I knowed
you reminded me of something, but I didn't know what, before. Now,
if them wimmen--" he began with decision, but broke off to stare
through the town-office window. Mr. Nute stepped from the door to
take observation, too.

Twelve women in single file were picking their way across the mushy
street piled with soft March snow.

"Reckon the Double-yer T. Double-yers is goin' to wait on Ferd ag'in
to give him his final come-uppance," suggested the constable. "Heard
some talk of it yistiddy."

The Smyrna tavern into which they disappeared was a huge hulk, relic
of the old days when the stage-coaches made the village their
headquarters. The storms of years had washed the paint from it; it
had "hogged" in the roof where the great square chimney projected
its nicked bulk from among loosened bricks scattered on the shingles;
and from knife-gnawed "deacon-seat" on the porch to window-blind,
dangling from one hinge on the broad gable, the old structure was
seedy indeed.

"I kind of pity Ferd," mumbled the constable, his faded eyes on the
cracked door that the last woman had slammed behind her. "Hain't
averaged to put up one man a week for five years, and I reckon he's
had to sell rum or starve."

Cap'n Sproul made no observation. He still maintained that air of
not caring to discuss the affairs of the Smyrna tavern. He stared
at the building as though he rather expected to see the sides tumble
out or the roof fly up, or something of the sort.

He did not bestow any especial attention on his friend Hiram Look
when the ex-circus man drove up to the hitching-post in front of the
town house with a fine flourish, hitched and came in.

"Seems that your wife and mine have gone temperancin' again to-day
with the bunch," remarked Hiram, relighting his cigar. "I don't know
what difference it makes whether old Branscomb and the other soshes
round here get their ruin in an express-package or help Ferd to a
little business. They're bound to have it, anyway."

"That ain't the p'int," protested Constable Nute, stiffly, throwing
back his coat to display his badge. "Ferd Parrott's breakin' the law,
and it hurts my feelin's as an officer to hear town magnates and
reprusentative citizens glossin' it over for him."

The Cap'n stared at him balefully but did not trust himself to retort.
Hiram was not so cautious. He bridled instantly and insolently.