"He's hurt bad, Mr. Peaslee, bad," he said, with dignity. "Of course it isn't fatal—unless it should mortify." He waved his hand deprecatingly. "I can't imagine what that Edwards boy used in his gun."

   Mr. Peaslee knew: the marble! He trembled. Still, he knew Jake's reputation. A shrewd thought visited his troubled mind.

   "What doctor's seein' him?" he asked.

   "Doctor!" exclaimed Hibbard, irritated. "Doctor! You know these French Canadians. They're worse scared of a doctor than of the evil one himself. Pete's usin' some old

   woman's stuff on his wounds,—bear's grease, rattlesnake oil, catnip tea,—what do I know? I can't make him see a doctor."

   "Some doctor'll have to testify to court, won't they?" persisted Mr. Peaslee.

   "Oh, I'll look out for that, don't you fear!" the lawyer said easily; but nevertheless he made a pretext for leaving the old man.

   Perhaps had Mr. Peaslee's fears not been so keen, he would have taken some comfort from this conversation; but as it was he felt that the lawyer was dangerous; he feared that Pete really was badly hurt. It

   would go hard, then, with Jim. It would, by the same token, go hard with himself should he confess.

   Suddenly he turned and rushed into Upham's store.

   "Upham," said he, "I want

    that

   !"

   And he pointed straight at a big harmonica with a strange and wonderful "harp attachment"—bright-colored and of amazing possibilities.

   Upham, a neat little gentleman with nicely trimmed side-whiskers, who was always fluttered by the unexpected, hesitated, half opened his mouth, and then forgot either to shut it or to speak.

   "Why, Mr. Peaslee," he stam

   mered at last, "it's real expensive! You—it's two dollars and seventy-five cents."

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