'do you let his Honor
carry the game home in his own bag,' and he walked away.

"Oh, you just ought to have seen Fiddles skip around when a turn in the
road shut out the cocked hat and cross-belts, and heard him pour out his
thanks. 'His name was Wilhelm, he cried out; it had only been by chance
that he had got separated from his friends. Where did I live? Would I
let him give me the rabbit for a stew for my dinner? Was I the painter
who had come to the inn? If so he had heard of me. Could he and his
friends call upon me that night? He would never forget my kindness. What
was the use of being a gentleman if you couldn't help another gentleman
out of a scrape? As for Herr Rabbit--the poor little Herr Rabbit-here he
stroked his fur--what more honorable end than gracing the table of the
Honorable Painter? Ah, these dogs of the law--when would they learn not
to meddle with things that did not concern them?"

"And did Fiddles come to your inn, Marny?" I asked, merely as a prod to
keep him going.

"Yes, a week later, and with the same gendarme. The cobbler in the
village, who sat all day long pegging at his shoes, and who, it seemed,
was watch-goose for the whole village and knew the movements of every
inhabitant, man, woman, and child, and who for some reason hated
Fiddles, on being interviewed by the gendarme, had stated positively
that the Mayor had _not_ passed his corner with his gun and four dogs
on the day of Fiddles's arrest. This being the case, the gendarme had
rearrested the culprit, and would have taken him at once to the lock-up
had not Fiddles threatened the officer with false arrest. Would the Herr
Painter accompany the officer and himself to the house of the Mayor and
settle the matter as to whether his Honor was or was not out hunting on
that particular morning?

"All this time Fiddles was looking about the dining-room of the inn,
taking in the supper-table, the rows of mugs, especially the landlady,
who was frightened half out of her wits by Cocked Hat's presence, and
more especially still little Gretchen--such a plump, rosy-cheeked,
blue-eyed little Dutch girl--with two Marguerite pig-tails down her
back. (Gretchen served the beer, and was the life of the place. 'Poor
young man!' she said to the landlady, who had by this time come to the
same conclusion--'and he is so good-looking and with such lovely eyes.')

"When we got to the Mayor's the old fellow was asleep in a big armchair,
his pipe out, his l