hen?" sneered young Byram from his perch
on the ridge-pole.

"That's it," said the warden, bitterly; "all you folks hang together
like bees in a swarm-bunch. You're nuthin' but a passel o' critters that
digs ginseng for them Chinese an' goes gunnin' for pa'tridges out o'
season--"

"I'll go gunnin' for _you_!" shouted Byram, climbing down the ladder in
a rage. "I am going to knock your head off, you darned thing!"

Prudence halted him; the game-warden, who had at first meditated flight,
now eyed him with patronizing assurance.

"Don't git riled with me, young man," he said. "I'm a 'fical of this
State. Anyway, it ain't you I'm lookin' for--"

"Well, why don't you say so, then?" broke in Byram, with an oath.

"But it's one o' your family," added the warden.

"My family!" stammered Byram, in genuine surprise. Then an ugly light
glimmered in his eyes. "You mean Dan McCloud?"

"I do," said the warden, "an' I'm fixed to git him, too."

"Well, what do you come to me for, then?" demanded Byram.

"For because Dan McCloud is your cousin, ain't he? An' I jest dropped in
on you to see how the land lay. If it's a fight it's a fight, but I jest
want to know how many I'm to buck against. Air you with him? I've
proofs. I know he's got his ice-box stuffed full o' pa'tridges an'
woodcock. Air you with him?"

"No," said Byram, with a scowl; "but I ain't with you, neither!"

"Don't git riled," said the warden. "I'm that friendly with folks I
don't wanter rile nobody. Look here, friend, you an' me is 'ficials,
ain't we?"

"I'm road-master of Foxville," said Byram, aggressively.

"Well, then, let's set down onto this bunch o' shingles an' talk it over
'ficially," suggested the warden, suavely.

"All right," said Byram, pocketing his hammer; "if you're out to ketch
Dan McCloud I don't care. He's a low-down, shifty cuss, who won't pay
his road-tax, an' I say it if he is my cousin, an' no shame to me,
neither."

The warden nodded and winked.

"If you he'p me ketch Dan McCloud with them birds in his ice-box, I'll
he'p you git your road-tax outen him," he proposed. "An' you git half
the reward, too."

"I ain't no spy," retorted Byram, "an' I don't want no reward outen
nobody."

"But you're a 'ficial, same as me," persisted the warden. "Set down onto
them shingles, friend, an' talk it over."

Byram sat down, fingering the head of his hammer; the warden, a fat,
shiny man, with tiny, greenish eyes and an unshaven jaw, took