is evenin' we run into
Old Man Thornycroft on the street, lookin' for us. He was awful excited.
He had been to Mr. Kirby's house, an' found out Mr. Kirby was in town,
an' followed us. He wanted a warrant swore out right there. Mr. Kirby
tried to argue with him, but it warn't no use. So at last Mr. Kirby
turned to me. 'You go on back, Bob,' he said. 'This'll give me some more
lookin' up to do. Tell my wife I'll just spend the night with Judge
Fowler, an' git back in time for court in Belcher's sto' in the mornin'.
An', Bob, you just stop by Mrs. Allen's--she's guardian of the boy--an'
tell her I say to bring him to Belcher's sto' to-morrow mornin' at nine.
You be there, too, Mr. Thornycroft--an', by the way, bring that block of
wood you been talkin' about.'"

That was all the squire had said, declared the rural policeman. No, he
hadn't sent any other message--just said he would read up on the case.
The rural policeman went out and closed the door behind him. It had been
informal, haphazard, like the life of the community in which they lived.
But, for all that, the law had knocked at the door of the Widow Allen
and left a white-faced mother and a bewildered boy behind.

They tried to resume their usual employments. Mrs. Allen sat down beside
the table, picked up her sewing and put her glasses on, but her hands
trembled when she tried to thread the needle. Davy sat on a
split-bottom chair in the corner, his feet up on the rungs, and tried to
be still; but his heart was pounding fast and there was a lump in his
throat. Presently he got up and went out of doors, to get in some
kindling on the back porch before it snowed, he told his mother. But he
went because he couldn't sit there any longer, because he was about to
explode with rage and grief and fear and bitterness.

He did not go toward the woodpile--what difference did dry kindling make
now? At the side of the house he stooped down and softly called Buck.
The hound came to him, wriggling along under the beams, and he leaned
against the house and lovingly pulled the briar-torn ears. A long time
he stayed there, feeling on his face already the fine mist of snow.
To-morrow the ground would be white; it didn't snow often in that
country; day after to-morrow everybody would hunt rabbits--everybody but
him and Buck.

It was snowing hard when at last he went back into the warm room, so
warm that he pulled off his coat. Once more he tried to sit still in the
split-bottom ch