Martin. He was sitting on a small barrel in front of the Sheriff's
buggy.

"Good morning," I said in the air, but no one answered me. Mastering my
irritation, I went forward to undo the hitching-strap, but Martin,
divining my intention, rose and loosened the buckle. As I reached him,
he spoke in a low whisper, keeping his back turned to me:

"Shoot off a joke quick. The boys'll let up on you then. It'll be all
right. Say somethin', for God's sake!"

The rough sympathy did me good, relaxed the tightness round my heart;
the resentment natural to one entrapped left me, and some of my self-
confidence returned:

"I never felt less like joking in my life, Martin, and humour can't be
produced to order."

He fastened up the hitching-strap, while I gathered the reins together
and got into the buggy. When I was fairly seated he stepped to the side
of the open vehicle, and, holding out his hand, said, "Good day,"
adding, as our hands clasped, "Wade in, young un; wade in."

"Good day, Martin. Good day, Sheriff. Good day, boys!"

To my surprise there came a chorus of answering "Good days!" as I drove
up the street.

A few hundred yards I went, and then wheeled to the right past the post
office, and so on for a quarter of a mile, till I reached the descent