“Reg’lar sharks!” snapped the selectman.

“Now,” continued Hiram, “after you’ve got Bat Reeves licked to an extent that will satisfy inquirin’ friends and all parties interested, you hand that writin’ to him!  It will show him that his blasted fool of a lawyer brother, by tryin’ to feather his own nest, has lost him the widder and her property, got him his lickin’, and put him into a hole gen’rally.  Tell him that if it hadn’t been for that paper drivin’ us out here northin’ would have been known.”

Hiram put up his nose and drew in a long breath of prophetic satisfaction.

“And if I’m any judge of what ’ll be the state of Bat Reeves’s feelin’s in general when he gets back to the village, the Reeves family will finish up by lickin’ each other—­and when they make a lawsuit out of that it will be worth while wastin’ a few hours in court to listen to.  How do you figger it, Cap’n?”

“It’s a stem-windin’, self-actin’ proposition that’s wound up, and is now tickin’ smooth and reg’lar,” said the Cap’n, with deep conviction.  “They’ll both get it!”

And they did.

Cap’n Aaron Sproul and Hiram Look shook hands on the news before nine o’clock the next morning.

XIX

Mr. Loammi Crowther plodded up the road.  Mr. Eleazar Bodge stumped down the road.

They arrived at the gate of Cap’n Aaron Sproul, first selectman of Smyrna, simultaneously.

Bathed in the benignancy of bland Indian summer, Cap’n Sproul and his friend Hiram Look surveyed these arrivals from the porch of the Sproul house.

At the gate, with some apprehensiveness, Mr. Bodge gave Mr. Crowther precedence.  As usual when returning from the deep woods, Mr. Crowther was bringing a trophy.  This time it was a three-legged lynx, which sullenly squatted on its haunches and allowed itself to be dragged through the dust by a rope tied into its collar.

“You needn’t be the least mite afeard of that bobcat,” protested Mr. Crowther, cheerily; “he’s a perfick pet, and wouldn’t hurt the infant in its cradle.”

The cat rolled back its lips and snarled.  Mr. Bodge retreated as nimbly as a man with a peg-leg could be expected to move.

“I got him out of a trap and cured his leg, and he’s turrible grateful,” continued Mr. Crowther.

But Mr. Bodge trembled even to his mat of red beard as he backed away.

“Him and me has got so’s we’re good friends, and I call him Robert—­Bob for short,” explained the captor, wistfully.

“You call him off—­that’s what you call him,” shouted Mr. Bodge.  “I hain’t had one leg chawed off by a mowin’-machine to let a cust hyeny chaw off the other.  Git out of that gateway.  I’ve got business here with these gents.”

“So’ve I,” returned Mr. Crowther, meekly; and he went in, dragging his friend.

“I done your arrunt,” he announced to the Cap’n.  “I cruised them timberlands from Dan to Beersheby, and I’m ready to state facts and figgers.”