"Speak to them, Solomon--speak to them--you know how I came by
the money! Speak to them--you know I am innocent!" cried the
judge, clutching his friend by the arm. Mahaffy opened his thin
lips, but the crowd drowned his voice in a roar.

"He's his "partner--"

"There's no evidence against him," said the sheriff.

A tall fellow, in a fringed hunting-shirt, shook a long finger
under Mahaffy's aquiline nose.

"You scoot--that's what--you make tracks! And if we ever see
your ugly face about here again, we'll--"

"You'll what?" inquired Mahaffy.

"We'll fix you out with feathers that won't molt, that's what!"

Mr. Mahaffy seemed to hesitate. His lean hands opened and
closed, and he met the eyes of the crowd with a bitter, venomous
stare. Some one gave him a shove and he staggered forward a
step, snapping out a curse. Before he could recover himself the
shove was repeated.

"Lope on out of here!" yelled the tall fellow, who had first
challenged his right to remain in Pleasantville or its environs.
As the crowd fell apart to make way for him, willing hands were
extended to give him the needed impetus, and without special
volition of his own,