persisted in his demands.

"My friend," said Lynde through his set teeth, "if I had you down here
I'd give you a short lesson in manners."

"I dare say! I dare say!" cried the man, flourishing the shot-gun
excitedly.

Lynde turned away disgusted and indignant; but his indignation was
neutralized by his astonishment at this incomprehensible brutality. He
had no resource but to apply to some private house and state his
predicament. As that luckless saddle had excited the derision of the
girl, and drawn down on him the contumely of the tavern-keeper, he
looked around for some safe spot in which to deposit it before it
brought him into further disgrace. His linen and all his worldly
possessions, except his money, which he carried on his person, were in
the valise; he could not afford to lose that.

The sun was high by this time, and the heat would have been intolerable
if it had not been for a merciful breeze which swept down from the
cooler atmosphere of the hills. Lynde wasted half an hour or more
seeking a hiding-place for the saddle. It had grown a grievous burden to
him; at every step it added a pound to its dead weight. He saw no way of
relieving himself of it. There it was perched upon his shoulders, like
the Old Man of the Sea on the back of Sindbad the Sailor. In sheer
despair Lynde flung down his load on the curb-stone at a corner formed
by a narrow street diagonally crossing the main thoroughfare, which he
had not quitted. He drew out his handkerchief and wiped the heavy drops
of perspiration from his brows. At that moment he was aware of the
presence of a tall, cadaverous man of about forty, who was so painfully