most a wonder to me that he ever took the crape off'm the
door-knob," remarked Hiram, in a husky aside to the Cap'n, not
intending to be overheard and somewhat crestfallen to find that he
had been.

"I didn't for some time, till it got faded," explained Mr. Gammon,
without display of resentment. "I had the casket-plate mounted on
black velvet and framed. It's in the settin'-room. I'll show it to
you before you leave."

Hiram pulled his mouth to one side and hissed under shelter of his
big mustache: "Well, just what a witch would want of _that_ feller,
unless 'twas to make cracked ice of him, blame me if I know!"

Mr. Gammon began apprehensive survey of his domains.

"Let's go home," muttered the Cap'n, his one idea of retreat still
with him. "What do you and I know about witches, anyway, even if there
are such things? We've done our duty! We've been here. If he gets
us to investigatin' it will be just like him to want us to dig that
woman up."

His appeal was suddenly interrupted. Mr. Gammon, peering about his
premises for fresh evidences of witchcraft accomplished during his
absence, bellowed frantic request to "Come, see!" He was behind the
barn, and they hastened thither.

"My Gawd, gents, they've witched the ca'f!" Their eyes followed the
direction of his quivering finger.

A calf was placidly surveying them from among the branches of a
"Sopsy-vine" apple-tree, munching an apple that he had been able to
reach. Whatever agency had boosted him there had left him wedged into
the crotch of the limbs so that he could not move, though he appeared
to be comfortable.

"It jest takes all the buckram out of me--them sights do," wailed
Mr. Gammon. "I can't climb up there and do it. One of you will have
to." He pulled out a big jackknife, opened it with his yellow teeth,
and extended it.

"Have to do what?" demanded Hiram.

"Cut off his ears and tail. That's the only way to get him out from
under the charm."

But Hiram, squinting up to assure himself that the calf was
comfortable, pushed Mr. Gammon back and made him sit down on a pile
of bean-poles.

"Better put your hat between your knees," he suggested, noting the
way Mr. Gammon's thin knees were jigging. "You might knock a sliver
off the bones, rappin' them together that way."

He lighted one of his long cigars, his shrewd eyes searching Mr.
Gammon all the time.

"Now," said he, tipping down a battered wheelbarrow and sitting on
it, "there's nothin' lik