A youth of about nineteen stood near the mule's head. He was barefooted, and the sum total of his apparel consisted of two garments; a shirt with only one button, which was at the throat, and a pair of pants (not trousers) which came to an abrupt conclusion several inches above his big ankle bones. He wore no hat of any description. Had he possessed one when the alarm was given, it had disappeared in the hurried rush which followed. This youth was powerfully impressed. "Daid!... Plum' daid!" I heard him exclaim, in an awed undertone, withdrawing for a moment the fixed gaze with which he had regarded the mule ever since he came, to give a sweeping glance of incredulity around. "Daid ez a nit he is, fur sho!" agreed another, a merry-faced fellow with a rotund paunch, over which the band to his pants refused to meet. "A hunnerd 'n' fifty dollars' wuth o' live meat turned to cyarn in a secint.... Who's gunta pay fur it? Whut 's th' law, 'Squar?" He looked at a big, full-whiskered man with his back to me. The 'Squire cleared his throat and felt for his tobacco. The mule's owner thrust forward in the interim, and brought up just in front of the magistrate. "Yes, I wan' to know th' damn law on th' subjic', too!" he bellowed, making no apparent effort to curb his feelings. "Wuth a hunnerd 'n' sev'nty-five--wuth two hunnerd wuz that mule! Six foot 'n' 'n inch--thar he is! Measure 'im if yo' don't b'lieve me! Th' bes' yearlin' in my barn--mealy-nosed, to boot! So much good cash to be drug out to th' buzzards--_damn_!" He spat on the ground and twisted his booted heel in rage. "This is a onusual case--I mought say a on-pre-ce-dinted case," drawled the 'Squire, in a conciliatory voice. "We'll settle it right here 'n' now, a'cordin' to th' test'munny 'n' my readin' o' th' law, ever'body bein' 'gree'ble. Yo' c'n take it to th' cote, sholy, but th' lawyers 'll eat yo' up. Bes' settle am-am-am'c'ble, right here 'n' now." At this juncture Buck's tall form arose from beside the tub, where he had been sitting on a nail keg while a motherly Hebron matron had put balsam to the hurt, and bound it with a white cloth. He came slowly forward, his leathern apron still about him, and pushed his way through the ring. "Whut yo' mouth'n' 'bout, Bart Crawley?" he demanded. The fire in his eyes had died to a smoldering gleam, but his mood was ugly. The man addressed looked at him, then immediately shuffled back a little. "That's th' bes' hoss mule in these parts--" "Yo' mean he _wuz_ th' bes' hoss mule!" interrupted Buck, in a spirit of reckless deviltry. Crawley flushed, paled, clenched his fists and glared hate at the speaker. "Here now, men," spoke up the 'Squire, laying a knotty hand upon the shoulder of the owner. "Leas' said's soones' mended. They's no manner o' ust carry'n' hard feelin's any fu'ther.... Buck, shet up!... Bart, keep _yo'_ trap shet till I git th' straight o' this. Whur's th' witnesses'? Who saw th' killin' o' this here mule?"