mp up pluck enough to tackle a sick tailor. It's made up of cowards,
and so is the community that breeds it; and ninety-nine times out of a
hundred the sheriff's another one." He paused--apparently to turn that
last idea over in his mind and taste the juice of it--then he went
on: "The sheriff that lets a mob take a prisoner away from him is the
lowest-down coward there is. By the statistics there was a hundred and
eighty-two of them drawing sneak pay in America last year. By the
way it's going, pretty soon there 'll be a new disease in the
doctor-books--sheriff complaint." That idea pleased him--any one could
see it. "People will say, 'Sheriff sick again?' 'Yes; got the same
old thing.' And next there 'll be a new title. People won't say, 'He's
running for sheriff of Rapaho County,' for instance; they'll say, 'He's
running for Coward of Rapaho.' Lord, the idea of a grown-up person being
afraid of a lynch mob!"

He turned an eye on the captive, and said, "Stranger, who are you, and
what have you been doing?"

"My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I have not been doing anything."

It was wonderful, the impression which the sound of that name made on
the sheriff, notwithstanding he must have come posted. He spoke up with
feeling, and said it was a blot on the country that a man whose marvelous
exploits had filled the world with their fame and their ingenuity, and
whose histories of them had won every reader's heart by the brilliancy
and charm of their literary setting, should be visited under the Stars
and Stripes by an outrage like this. He apologized in the name of the
whole nation, and made Holmes a most handsome bow, and told Constable
Harris to see him to his quarters, and hold himself personally
responsible if he was molested again. Then he turned to the mob and
said,

"Hunt your holes, you scum!" which they did; then he said: "Follow me,
Shadbelly; I'll take care of your case myself. No--keep your pop-gun;
whenever I see the day that I'll be afraid to have you behind me with
that thing, it 'll be time for me to join last year's hundred and
eighty-two"; and he rode off in a walk, Shadbelly following.

When we were on our way back to our cabin, toward breakfast-time, we
ran upon the news that Fetlock Jones had escaped from his lock-up in the
night and is gone! Nobody is sorry. Let his uncle track him out if he
likes; it is in his line; the camp is not interested.

V

Ten days later--

"James Walker" is all