"What was he doing there?" suddenly asked Mrs. Shrimplin.

"I expect he was attending strictly to his own business," retorted Mr.
Shrimplin, offended by the utter irrelevancy of the question.

"Go on, pal" begged Custer.

He felt that his mother's interruptions were positively cruel, and--so
like a woman!

"Me and young John North passed the time of day," continued Mr.
Shrimplin, thus abjured, "and I started around the north side of the
Square to light the lamp on old man McBride's own corner. If I'd knowed
then--" he paused impressively, "if I'd just knowed then, that was my
time! I could have laid hands on the murderer. He was there somewheres,
most likely he was watching me; well, maybe it was all for the best, I
don't know as a married man's got any right to take chances. Anyway, I
got to within, well--I should say, thirty feet of that lamp-post when
all of a sudden Bill began to act up. You never saw a horse act up like
he done! He rose in his britching and then the other end of him come up
and he acted like he wanted to set down on the singletree!"

"Why did he do that?" asked Custer.

"Well, I guess you've got some few things to learn, Custer;" said Mr.
Shrimplin indulgently. "He smelt blood--that's what he smelt!"

"Oh!" gasped Custer.

"I've knowed it to happen before. It's instinct," explained Shrimplin.