orse-thief," murmured Grey. "I'll write to Woodburn." Then
he concluded that first it would be well without committing himself to
know more surely how far this Democratic community would go in support of
the fugitive-slave law. He applauded his cautiousness.

A moment later Pole, well shaven, overtook him. Grey stopped him, chatted
as they went on, and at last asked if there was in Westways a good
Democratic lawyer. Pole was confident that Mr. Swallow would be all that
he could desire, and pointed out his house.

Meanwhile Peter Lamb began to suspect that there was mischief brewing for
the man who had brought down on him the anger of Mark Rivers, and like
enough worse things as soon as Penhallow came home.

As Pole turned into his shop-door, Mr. Grey went westward in deep
thought. He was sure of the barber's identity. If Josiah had been his own
property, he would with no hesitation have taken the steps needful to
reclaim the fugitive, but it was Mr. Woodburn who had lost Josiah's years
of service and it was desirable not hastily to commit his friend. He knew
with what trouble the fugitive-slave law had been obeyed or not obeyed at
the North. He was not aware that men who cared little about slavery were
indignant at a law which set aside every safeguard with which the growth
of civilization had surrounded the trial of even the worst criminal. As
he considered the situation, he walked more and more slowly until he
paused in front of Swallow's house. Every one had assured him that since
General Jackson's time the town and county had changelessly voted the
good old Democratic ticket. Here at least the rights of property would be
respected, and there would be no lawless city mobs to make the
restoration of a slave difficult. The brick house and ill-kept garden
before which he paused looked unattractive. Beside the house a one-storey
wooden office bore the name "Henry W. Swallow, Attorney-at-law." There
was neither bell nor knocker. Mr. Grey rapped on the office door with his
cane, and after waiting a moment without hearing any one, he entered a
front room and looked about him.

Swallow was a personage whose like was found too often in the small
Pennsylvania villages. The only child of a close-fisted, saving farmer,
he found himself on his father's death more than sufficiently well-off to
go to college and later to study law. He was careful and penurious, but
failing of success in Philadelphia returned to Westways when abou