"I can explain--" cried the judge.

"Make him give me my money!" wailed Mrs Walker.

"Jezebel!" roared the judge, in a passion of rage.

"Ca'm's the word, or you'll get 'em started!" whispered the sheriff.
The judge looked fearfully around. At his side stood Mahaffy, a yellow
pallor splotching his thin cheeks. He seemed to be holding himself there
by an effort.

"Speak to them, Solomon--speak to them--you know how I came by the
money! Speak to them--you know I am innocent!" cried the judge,
clutching his friend by the arm. Mahaffy opened his thin lips, but the
crowd drowned his voice in a roar.

"He's his partner--"

"There's no evidence against him," said the sheriff.

A tall fellow, in a fringed hunting-shirt, shook a long finger under
Mahaffy's aquiline nose.

"You scoot--that's what--you make tracks! And if we ever see your ugly
face about here again, we'll--"

"You'll what?" inquired Mahaffy.

"We'll fix you out with feathers that won't molt, that's what!"

Mr. Mahaffy seemed to hesitate. His lean hands opened and closed, and he
met the eyes of the crowd with a bitter, venomous stare. Some one gave
him a shove and he staggered forward a step, snapping out a curse.
Before he could recover himself the shove was repeated.

"Lope on out of here!" yelled the tall fellow, who had first challenged
his right to remain in Pleasantville or its environs. As the crowd fell
apart to make way for him, willing hands were extended to give him the
needed impetus, and without special volition of his own.

Mahaffy was hurried toward the road. His hat was knocked flat on his
head--he turned with an angry snarl, the very embodiment of hate--but
again he was thrust forward. And then, somehow, his walk became a run
and the crowd started after him with delighted whoopings. Once more,
and for the last time, he faced about, giving the judge a hopeless,
despairing glance. His tormentors were snatching up sods and stones and
he had no choice. He turned, his long strides taking him swiftly over
the ground, with the air full of missiles at his back.

Before he had gone a hundred yards he abandoned the road and, turning
off across an unfenced field, ran toward the woods and swampy bottom.
Twenty men were in chase behind him. The judge was the sheriff's
prisoner--that official had settled that point--but Mr. Mahaffy was
common property, it was his cruel privilege to furnish excitement; his
keen rage was almost equal to the fe