sight of the house. I haven't died
three times, all by violent means, not to stay dead so far's she's
concerned. Now you tell me where to get the key to that school-house
and I'll move in."

For the first time in their conversation Mr. Crymble dropped his meek
manner. His little eyes blazed. His drooping mouth snarled and his
yellow teeth showed defiantly. Cap'n Sproul always welcomed defiance.
It was the thin man's passive resignation at the beginning of their
acquaintance that caused the Cap'n to poke the ash-stick back under
the stove. Now he buttoned his pea-jacket, pulled his hat down firmly,
and spat first into one fist and then the other.

"You can walk, Crymble, if you're a mind to and will go quiet," he
announced, measuring the other's gaunt frame with contemptuous eye.
"I'd rather for your sake that the citizens would see you walkin'
up there like a man. But if you won't walk, then I'll pick you up
and stick you behind my ear like a lead-pencil and take you there."

"Where?"

"To your house. Where else should a husband be goin' that's been
gallivantin' off for twenty years?"

And detecting further recalcitrancy in the face of his visitor, he
pounced on him, scrabbled up a handful of cloth in the back of his
coat, and propelled him out of doors and up the street. After a few
protesting squawks Mr. Crymble went along.

An interested group of men, who had bolted out of Broadway's store,
surveyed them as they passed at a brisk pace.

"By the sacred codfish!" bawled Broadway, "if that ain't Dep Crymble!
How be ye, Dep?"

Mr. Crymble lacked either breath or amiability. He did not reply to
the friendly greeting. Cap'n Sproul did that for him enigmatically.
"He's back from paradise on his third furlough," he cried.

"And bound to hell," mourned Mr. Crymble, stumbling along before the
thrust of the fist at his back.

XXVI

The Crymble place was a full half mile outside the village of Smyrna,
but Cap'n Sproul and his victim covered the distance at a lively pace
and swung into the yard at a dog-trot. Batson Reeves was just
blanketing his horse, for in his vigorous courtship forenoon calls
figured regularly.

"My Gawd!" he gulped, fronting the Cap'n and staring at his captive
with popping eyes, "I knowed ye had a turrible grudge agin' me, Sproul,
but I didn't s'pose you'd go to op'nin' graves to carry out your spite
and bust my plans."

"He didn't happen to be anchored," retorted the Cap'n, with