from the Widdy."

"Yeh." And Mason began to move nervously under the cold glitter in
Kenna's eyes.

"I want ye to donate that to the orphan asylum. Here, Jack!" Kenna
called to the clerk, "Write on a big envelope 'Donation for the orphan
asylum. Conscience money.'"

"What does it say?" inquired Bill, for he could not read. The clerk held
out the envelope and read the inscription.

"All right," said Bill, "now, Mason, jest so I won't lose patience with
you and act rough like, hand over that twenty-five."

"I ain't got it, I tell you. It's all gone."

"Turn out your pockets, or I will."

The whiskey sneak unwillingly turned out his pockets. He had fifteen
dollars and odd.

"Put it in that there envelope," said Bill, with growing ferocity. "Now
gum it up. Here, Jack, will ye kindly drop this in the contribution box
for the orphans while we watch you?" The clerk entered into the humour
of it all. He ran across the street to the gate of the orphan asylum and
dropped the envelope into the box. Mason tried to escape but Bill's
mighty hand was laid on his collar. And now the storm of animal rage
pent up in him for so long broke forth. He used no weapon but his fists,
and when the doctor came, he thought the whiskey man was dead. But they
brought him round, and in the hospital he lingered long.

It was clearly a case of grave assault; the magistrate was ready to
issue a warrant for Kenna's arrest. But such was Bill's reputation that
they could get no constable to serve it. Meanwhile, Mason hung between
life and death. He did not die. Within six weeks, he was able to sit up
and take a feeble interest in things about him, while Bill at Links
pursued his normal life.

Gossip about the affair had almost died when the Mayor at Petersburg
received a document that made him start. The Attorney General of the
Province wrote: "Why have you not arrested the man who committed that
assault? Why has no effort been made to administer justice?"

The Mayor was an independent business man, seeking no political favours,
and he sent a very curt reply. "You had better come and arrest him
yourself, if you are so set on it."

That was why two broad, square men, with steadfast eyes, came one day
into Links. They sought out Bill Kenna and found him in the bar-room,
lifting the billiard table with one hand, as another man slipped wedges
under it to correct the level. Little Jim, though he had no business
there at all, stood on the table it