knife! That was a serious offence. Arrest him, and send him to
jail at the Forks? Take him out, and duck him in the lake? Lick
him, and drive him out of the town?

There was a multitude of counsellors, but it was Hose Ransom who
settled the case. He was a well-known fighting-man, and a respected
philosopher. He swung his broad frame in front of the fiddler.

"Tell ye what we'll do. Jess nothin'! Ain't Bull Corey the
blowin'est and the mos' trouble-us cuss 'round these hull woods?
And would n't it be a fust-rate thing ef some o' the wind was let
out 'n him?"

General assent greeted this pointed inquiry.

"And wa'n't Fiddlin' Jack peacerble 'nough 's long 's he was let
alone? What's the matter with lettin' him alone now?"

The argument seemed to carry weight. Hose saw his advantage, and
clinched it.

"Ain't he given us a lot o' fun here this winter in a innercent kind
o' way, with his old fiddle? I guess there ain't nothin' on airth
he loves better 'n that holler piece o' wood, and the toons that's
inside o' it. It's jess like a wife or a child to him. Where's
that fiddle, anyhow?"

Some one had picked it deftly out of Corey's hand during the
scuffle, and now passed it up to Hose.