of a hot-eyed young man from the East, who was besieging the county
authorities for redress and writing brimstone and saltpetre for his paper.
The powers of the county proving either lackadaisical or timorous, he
appealed to those of the State, and he went every night to sleep at a
farmhouse, the owner of which had received a warning from the "White-
Caps." And one night it befell that he was rewarded, for the raiders
attempted an entrance. He and the farmer and the former's sons beat off
the marauders and did a satisfactory amount of damage in return. Two of
the "White-Caps" they captured and bound, and others they recognized. Then
the State authorities hearkened to the voice of the "Herald" and its
owner; there were arrests, and in the course of time there was a trial.
Every prisoner proved an alibi, could have proved a dozen; but the editor
of the "Herald," after virtually conducting the prosecution, went upon the
stand and swore to man after man. Eight men went to the penitentiary on
his evidence, five of them for twenty years. The Plattville Brass Band
serenaded the editor of the "Herald" again.

There were no more raids, and the Six-Cross-Roads men who were left kept
to their hovels, appalled and shaken, but, as time went by and left them
unmolested, they recovered a measure of their hardiness and began to think
on what they should do to the man who had brought misfortune and terror
upon them. For a long time he had been publishing their threatening
letters and warnings in a column which he headed: "Humor of the Day."

"Harkless don't understand the Cross-Roads," Briscoe said to Miss Sherwood
as they left the Wimby farm behind; "and then he's like most of us; hardly
any of us realizes that harm's ever going to come to _us_. Harkless was
anxious enough about other people, but----"

The young lady interrupted him, touching his arm. "Look!" she said,