o go. Ef you're busy, ef you've
got letters to write, anythin' to do--I'll tell the boys you sed so, and
that'll be all; that'll let you out."

Half-humorously, as it seemed to me, he added: "You're young and a
tenderfoot. You'd better stick to what you've begun upon. That's the way
to do somethin'.--I often think it's the work chooses us, and we've just
got to get down and do it."

"I've told you I had nothing to do," I retorted angrily; "that's the
truth. Perhaps" (sarcastically) "this work chooses me."

The Sheriff moved away from the door.

On reaching the street I stopped for a moment in utter wonder. At that
hour in the morning Washington Street was usually deserted, but now
it seemed as if half the men in the town had taken up places round the
entrance to Locock's office stairs. Some sat on barrels or boxes tipped
up against the shop-front (the next store was kept by a German, who sold
fruit and eatables); others stood about in groups or singly; a few were
seated on the edge of the side-walk, with their feet in the dust of the
street. Right before me and most conspicuous was the gigantic figure
of Martin. He was sitting on a small barrel in front of the Sheriff's
buggy.

"Good morning," I said in the air, but no one answered me. Mastering
my irritation, I went forward to undo the hitching-strap, but Martin,
divining my intention, rose and loosened the buckle. As I reached him,
he spoke in a low whisper, keeping his back turned to me:

"Shoot off a joke quick. The boys'll let up on you then. It'll be all
right. Say something for God's sake!"

The rough sympathy did me good, relaxed the tightness round my heart;
the resentment natural to one entrapped left me, and some of my
self-confidence returned:

"I never felt less like joking in my life, Martin, and humour can't be
produced to order."

He fastened up the hitching-strap, while I gathered the reins together
and got into the buggy. When I was fairly seated he stepped to the
side of the open vehicle, and, holding out his hand, said, "Good day,"
adding, as our hands clasped, "Wade in, young un; wade in."

"Good day, Martin. Good day, Sheriff. Good day, boys!"

To my surprise there came a chorus of answering "Good days!" as I drove
up the street.

A few hundred yards I went, and then wheeled to the right past the post
office, and so on for a quarter of a mile, till I reached the descent
from the higher ground, on which the town was built, to the rive