umes gathered around us.

"Order! Sh-sh-sh," was the loud command of the man beside me in whom I
recognized--or thought that I did--the voice of Josiah Curtis.

"What has happened?"

"One o' them tried to serve a writ an' we have tarred an' feathered
him."

Just then I heard the voice of Purvis shouting back in the crowd this
impassioned plea:

"Bart, for God's sake, come here."

I turned to Curtis and said:

"If the gentleman tried to serve the writ he acted without orders and
deserves what he has got. The other fellow is simply a hired man who
came along to take care of the horses. He couldn't tell the difference
between a writ and a hole in the ground."

"Men, you have gone fur enough," said Curtis. "This man is all right.
Bring the other men here and put 'em on their horses an' I'll escort 'em
out o' the town."

They brought Latour on a rail amidst roars of laughter. What a
bear-like, poultrified, be-poodled object he was!--burred and sheathed
in rumpled gray feathers from his hair to his heels. The sight and smell
of him scared the horses. There were tufts of feathers over his ears and
on his chin. They had found great joy in spoiling that aristocratic
livery in which he had arrived.

Then came poor Purvis. They had just begun to apply the tar and feathers
to him when Curtis had stopped the process. He had only a shaking ruff
of long feathers around his neck. They lifted the runaways into their
saddles. Purvis started off at a gallop, shouting "Come on, Bart," but
they stopped him.

"Don't be in a hurry, young feller," said one of the Indians, and then
there was another roar of laughter.

"Go back to yer work now," Curtis shouted, and turning to me added: "You
ride along with me and let our feathered friends follow us."

So we started up the road on our way back to Cobleskill. Soon Latour
began to complain that he was hot and the feathers pricked him.

"You come alongside me here an' raise up a little an' I'll pick the
inside o' yer legs an' pull out yer tail feathers," said Curtis. "If you
got 'em stuck into yer skin you'd be a reg'lar chicken an' no mistake."

I helped in the process and got my fingers badly tarred.

"This is a dangerous man to touch--his soul is tarred," said Curtis.
"Keep away from him."

"What a lookin' skunk you be!" he laughed as he went on with the
picking.

We resumed our journey. Our guide left us at the town line some three
miles beyond.

"Thank God the danger i