et
lost in them if they are raised often enough and long enough. The
diamond notch on the handle, the brother who was sick of the fever, the
alleged non-title of Mac-an-Ward, the interposition of the woman, the
cans with the handles which fall out, and the cans with the handles
which do not fall out, the equity of selling that which does not belong
to you--all these things chased each other across Festus Clasby's mind.
The Son of the Bard stood silent by the cart, looking away down the road
with a pensive look on his long, narrow face.

"Pay me the one-and-six to put into the hands of my brother," the woman
said.

Festus Clasby's mind was brought back at once to his pocket. "No," he
said, "but this man can give you my money to pay into the hand of your
brother."

"This man," she said airily, "has no interest for me. Whatever took
place between the two of you in regard to my brother's can I will have
nothing to say to."

"Then if you won't," said Festus Clasby, "I will have nothing to do with
you. If he had no right to the can you can put the police on to him;
that's what police are for."

"And upon you," the woman added. "The police are also for that."

"Upon me?" Festus Clasby exclaimed, his chest swelling. "My name has
never crossed the mind of a policeman, except, maybe, for what he might
owe me at the end of the month for pigs' heads. I never stood in the
shadow of the law. And to this man standing by your side I have nothing
to say."

"You have. You bought from him that which did not belong to him. You
received, and the receiver is as bad as the rogue. So the law has it.
The shadow of the law is great."

Festus Clasby came down from his cart, his face troubled. "I am not
used to this," he said.

"You are a handsome man, a man thought well of. You have great
provisions upon your cart. This man has nothing but the unwashed shirt
which hangs on his slack back. It will not become you to march
handcuffed with his like, going between two policemen to the bridewell."

"What are you saying of me, woman?"

"It will be no token of business to see your cart and the provisions it
contains driven into the yard of the barracks. All the people of this
town will see it, for they have many eyes. The people of trade will be
coming to their doors, speaking of it. 'A man's property was molested,'
they will say. 'What property?' will be asked. 'The Can with the Diamond
Notch,' they will answer; 'the man of substance cons