n to a rafter, and I'll not say much to you now. But if you ever
reach the ground without breaking your neck, I'll have a word with
you, for my feelings are sorely stirred."

I do not know how long I sat in the tree engaged in my bitter
meditation. But finally I heard a great scudding of feet near the
foot of the tree, and I then saw the little Doctor bolting down the
road like a madman, his hat gone, his hair flying, while his two
coat-tails stuck out behind him straight as boards.

My excitement and interest in my ally's flight was so great that I
near fell from my perch. It was incomprehensible that my little friend
could dust the road at such speed. He seemed only to touch the ground
from time to time. In a moment or two he was literally gone, like an
arrow shot from the bow.

But upon casting my bewildered glance downward I found myself staring
squarely into the mouth of a blunderbuss. The mouth of this
blunderbuss, I may say, was of about the width of a fair-sized
water-pitcher; in colour it was bright and steely. Its appearance
attracted me to such an extent that I lost all idea of the man behind
the gun. But presently I heard a grim, slow voice say,--

"Climb down, ye thief."

The reason for little Doctor Chord's hasty self-removal from the
vicinity was now quite clear, and my interest in his departure was no
longer speculative.

CHAPTER XXIV

"Climb down, ye thief," said the grim, slow voice again. I looked once
more into the mouth of the blunderbuss. I decided to climb. If I had
had my two feet square on the ground, I would have taken a turn with
this man, artillery or no artillery, to see if I could get the upper
hand of him. But neither I nor any of my ancestors could ever fight
well in trees. Foliage incommodes us. We like a clear sweep for the
arm, and everything on a level space, and neither man in a tree.
However, a sensible man holds no long discussions with a blunderbuss.
I slid to the ground, arriving in a somewhat lacerated state. I
thereupon found that the man behind the gun was evidently some kind of
keeper or gardener. He had a sour face deeply chiselled with mean
lines, but his eyes were very bright, the lighter parts of them being
steely blue, and he rolled the pair of them from behind his awful
weapon.

"And for whom have you mistaken me, rascal?" I cried as soon as I had
come ungracefully to the ground and found with whom I had to deal.

"Have mistaken ye for naught," repli