shall not take much of your time, Mr. Dobbins," he explained to his
companion as they started for the village.

Frank ran into the post-office as they reached it. The postmistress handed
out a paper from the Jordan letter-box. Frank stuck it in his pocket a
little disappointedly, for he had expected a letter from his father.

He led Dobbins from the post-office to the village tavern. As he had
expected, Judge Roseberry was lounging on the bench outside, spouting
politics to some loafer companions.

"Keep right with me, Mr. Dobbins," directed Frank. "I shall need your
services."

"Drat me, if I can understand what you're getting at, lad," said Dobbins
desperately, "but I'll stick, if I can be of any use to you."

Frank marched straight up to the crowd in front of the tavern.

"Judge Roseberry," he said calmly, but with an impressive seriousness, "I
will thank you to return my pocket knife."

"Hey--h'm!" spluttered the judge, taken off his balance. "Your knife?"

"Precisely," insisted Frank.

"Why--how--who says I've got your knife?" stammered the judge, growing
redder in the face than usual.

"Mr. Dobbins, here, informs me that he does," replied Frank.