"Mine's hitched up outside. You ken hev it."

Rising to my feet I said: "Then we can go."

We had nearly reached the door of the office, when the Sheriff stopped,
turned his back upon the door, and looking straight into my eyes said:

"Don't play foolish. You've no call to go. Ef you're busy, ef you've got
letters to write, anythin' to do--I'll tell the boys you sed so, and
that'll be all; that'll let you out."

Half-humorously, as it seemed to me, he added: "You're young and a
tenderfoot. You'd better stick to what you've begun upon. That's the way
to do somethin'.--I often think it's the work chooses us, and we've just
got to get down and do it."

"I've told you I had nothing to do," I retorted angrily; "that's the
truth. Perhaps" (sarcastically) "this work chooses me."

The Sheriff moved away from the door.

On reaching the street I stopped for a moment in utter wonder. At that
hour in the morning Washington Street was usually deserted, but now it
seemed as if half the men in the town had taken up places round the
entrance to Locock's office stairs. Some sat on barrels or boxes tipped
up against the shop-front (the next store was kept by a German, who sold
fruit and eatables); others stood about in groups or singly; a few were
seated on the edge of the side-walk, with their feet in the dust of the
street. Right before me and most conspicuous was the gigantic figure of