th. Come in here, I say."

"I dassent. Maybe he follered me."

"Maybe who follered you?"

"Him."

By this time several other customers had joined the Marshal.

"Why, it's Lucius Fry's girl Elfaretta," said Elmer K. Pratt. "What's
the matter, Elfie?"

"You're sure he ain't follerin' me? Look hard," said the girl.

They all looked hard.

"I don't see anybody, Elfie," said Anderson Crow.

"It's a little early for Santa Claus," said Harry Squires, turning back
to the stove, his eye on the only rocking-chair in the place. "Come
inside and tell us all about it."

The girl entered the store, and some one closed the door. She was
shivering, and not altogether from the cold. Her glance darted hither
and thither, as if in quest of a more enduring protection than that
exemplified by the man-power surrounding her.

"Roll that barrel of sugar over against the door," she ordered quickly.
"I wouldn't have him catch me here for anything."

"You needn't be skeered," said the Marshal. "Ain't we here? Let's see:
there's one, two--eight of us. I guess--"

"He'd clean this bunch up as easy as rolling off a log," said Elfaretta,
edging toward the fire, but all the while casting uneasy apprehensive
glances over her shoulder.

Newt Spratt and Situate M. Jones jointly took it upon themselves to roll
the barrel of sugar up against the door.

"Are you referring to your estimable dad?" inquired Mr. Squires from the
rocking-chair.

"Yes, I am," said Elfaretta somewhat defiantly.

"Is he a little more vicious than usual tonight?" asked the reporter.

"He never was worse," said the girl. "He's just simply awful. I had to
come out to see if I couldn't get Mr. Crow to come up to the house
an'--an' settle him. He seen me just as I was going out the door, and
took after me. Out by the front gate he slipped on the ice and set down
like a ton of bricks. Oh, I never heard such cussing. You got to come up
to the house right away, Mr. Crow. He's just terrible. He--"

"Hold on a minute," interrupted the Marshal. "Go slow, now, an' answer
my questions. Is he--"

"He's throwing things around something awful. Ma's in the pantry with
the door locked, and Juliet's hiding up in the--"

"I know all that," broke in Mr. Crow sharply. "You needn't tell me about
that. What I want to know is, is he or is he not in his own house, under
his own roof?"

"He is, unless he's still setting out there in the front yard--or
follerin' after me," she con