the reins and lighted the filched cigar. Other Gashwiler property
was sacred to him. From all the emporium's choice stock he would
have abstracted not so much as a pin; but the Gashwiler cigars, said
to be "The World's Best 10c Smoke," with the picture of a dissipated
clubman in evening dress on the box cover, were different, in that
they were pointedly hidden from Merton. He cared little for cigars,
but this was a challenge; the old boy couldn't get away with
anything like that. If he didn't want his cigars touched let him
leave the box out in the open like a man. Merton drew upon the
lighted trophy, moistened and pasted back the wrapper that had
broken when the end was bitten off, and took from the bottom of the
delivery wagon the remains of a buggy whip that had been worn to
half its length. With this he now tickled the bony ridges of the
horse. Blows meant nothing to Dexter, but he could still be tickled
into brief spurts of activity. He trotted with swaying head, sending
up an effective dust screen between the wagon and a still possibly
observing Gashwiler.

His deliveries made, Merton again tickled the horse to a frantic
pace which continued until they neared the alley on which fronted
the Gashwiler barn; there the speed was moderated to a mild amble,
for Gashwiler believed his horse should be driven with tenderness,
and his equally watchful wife believed it would run away if given
the chance.

Merton drove into the barnyard, unhitched the horse, watered it at
the half of a barrel before the iron pump, and led it into the barn,
where he removed the harness. The old horse sighed noisily and shook
himself with relief as the bridle was removed and a halter slipped
over his venerable brow.