The spectacle greatly depressed Mr. Peaslee. The smallest, faintest question entered his mind whether a twenty-five-cent knife would console such melancholy.

   To give himself a countenance while he watched events, Solomon got a rake and began gathering together the few autumn leaves which had fluttered down in his front yard.

   It was not useless labor, for they would "come in handy" later in "banking up" the house.

   And so, presently, he saw Sam Barton, the constable, his big shoulders rolling as he walked, advancing down the street. Mr. Peaslee expected him; nevertheless his appearance gave him a disagreeable shock. Suppose the constable had been coming for him!

   "Ain't arrestin' anybody down this way, be ye?" he called, with a feeble attempt at jocularity. Perhaps, after all—

   "Looks like it," said Barton, succinctly.

   Mr. Peaslee stepped to the fence. "'T aint likely they'll do much to a leetle feller like that, I guess," he said, searching the constable's face.

   "Dunno," said Barton, passing on.

   Solomon, much concerned, leaned on his rake and watched him enter the Edwards house. Jim had disappeared; there was some delay.

   Mrs. Peaslee came to the door.

   "Arrestin' that Ed'ards boy, be they, Solomon?" she said. "Well, serve him right,

    I

   say, shootin' guns off so. Like father, like son.

    I

   dunno as

    't was

   the son. I'd as soon believe it of the father. Everybody

   knows Lamoury and he's been mixed up together. Some of his smugglin' tricks, prob'ly."

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