"'Course," said he, "hit'll be poorty hard on you'ns, but I can't help it, I've got ter do my juty, let it hurt whoever it will. Not er thing kin ye tech at's in this yer tavern, 'ceptin' what's your'n, that air's jest how it air. So now mind w'at yer a doin'." The servants were idle, the dining-room closed, the kitchen and pantries locked up. Never was there a more doleful set of people. Mrs. Nancy Jones Black thought of playing a piece of sacred music, but she found the grand piano locked, with its key deep in the sheriff's pocket. The situation was made doubly disagreeable when at last the officer informed the guests that they would have to vacate their rooms forthwith, as he should proceed at once to close up the building. "Heavens, man, are you going to turn us out into the woods?" demanded Peck. "Woods er no woods," he replied, "ye'll hev ter git out'n yer, right off." "But the ladies, Mr. Sheriff," suggested Punner, "no Southern gentleman can turn a lady out of doors." The officer actually colored with the force of the insinuation. He stood silent for some time with his eyes fixed on the floor. Presently he looked up and said: "The weeming kin stay till mornin'." "Well they must have something to eat," said Punner. "They can't starve." "Thet's so," the sheriff admitted, "they kin hev a bite er so." "And we----" "You men folks cayn't hev a dorg gone mouthful, so shet up!" "Well," observed Cattleton, dryly, "it appears the odds is the difference between falling into the hands of moonshiners and coming under the influence of a lawful sheriff." "I know a little law," interposed Bartley Hubbard with a sullen emphasis, "and I know that this sheriff has no right to tumble us out of doors, and for my part----" "Fur yer part," said the sheriff coolly, "fur yer part, Mister, ef ye fool erlong o' me I'll crack yer gourd fur ye." "You'll do what?" "I'll stave in yer piggin." "I don't understand." "W'y, blame yer ignorant hide, wha' wer' ye borned and fotch up? I'll jest knock the everlastin' head off'n ye, _thet's_ 'zac'ly w'at I says. Mebbe ye don't understan' _thet_?" "Yes," said Hubbard, visibly shrinking into himself, "I begin to suspect your meaning." Miss Crabb was taking notes with enthusiastic rapidity. Dunkirk called the sheriff to him and a long conference was held between them, the result of which was presently announced. "I heve thort it over," said the quiet officer of the law, "an' es hit appear thet w'at grub air on han' an' done cooked might spile afore it c'u'd be sold, therefore I proclamate an' say at you'ns kin stay yer tell termorrer an' eat w'at's cooked, but tech nothin' else." Cattleton and Punner applauded loudly. To everybody the announcement was a reprieve of no small moment, and a sigh of relief rustled through the groups of troubled guests. Those who had been down the ravine were very tired and hungry; the thought of a cold luncheon to them was the vision of a feast.