it, nor I don't care," he muttered between
his teeth as he toiled. "All I know is, that stove belongs to T. Taylor,
of Vienny, and he's goin' to have it."

And when the new boarding lay around him in splinters and the door
was wide once more, he led the way into the kitchen.

"You undertake to throw that hot water on me, Mis' Luce," he declared,
noting what her fury was prompting, "and you'll go right up through
that roof, and it won't be no millennium that will boost you, either."

The stove man and Hiram followed him in and the disinterested
onlookers came, too, curiosity impelling them. And as they were
Smyrna farmers who had suffered various and aggravating depredations
by this same Aholiah Luce, they were willing to lend a hand even to
lug out a hot stove. The refulgent monarch of the kitchen departed,
with the tin of biscuit still browning in its interior, passed close
to the cursing Mr. Luce, lying on his back under Nute's boring knee,
and then with a lusty "Hop-ho! All together!" went into T. Taylor's
wagon.

Mr. Luce, freed now as one innocuous, leaped up and down in a perfect
ecstasy of fury. "You've squdged me too fur. You've done it at last!"
he screamed, with hysteric iteration. "You've made me a desp'rit'
outlaw."

"Outlaw! You're only a cheap sneak-thief!"

"That's right, Cap'n Sproul," remarked the constable. "He can't even
steal hens till it's dark and they can't look at him. If they turned
and put their eye on him he wouldn't dare to touch 'em."

"I don't dast to be an outlaw, hey?" shrieked Mr. Luce. The vast
injury that had been done him, this ruthless assault on his house,
his humiliation in public, and now these wanton taunts, whipped his
weak nature into frenzy. Cowards at bay are the savagest foes. Mr.
Luce ran amuck!

Spurring his resolution by howling over and over: "I don't dast to
be an outlaw, hey? I'll show ye!" he hastened with a queer sort of
stiff-legged gallop into the field, tore away some boarding, and
descended into what was evidently a hiding-place, a dry well. A
moment, and up he popped, boosting a burden. He slung it over his
shoulder and started toward them, staggering under its weight. It
was a huge sack, with something in it that sagged heavily.

"Nice sort of an outlaw he'll make--that woodchuck!" observed
Constable Nute with a cackle of mirth.

The first selectman and his supporters surveyed the approach of the
furious Mr. Luce with great complacency. If Mr. Luce