"I ain't no spy," retorted Byram, "an' I don't want no reward outen nobody." "But you're a 'ficial, same as me," persisted the warden. "Set down onto them shingles, friend, an' talk it over." Byram sat down, fingering the head of his hammer; the warden, a fat, shiny man, with tiny, greenish eyes and an unshaven jaw, took a seat beside him and began twisting a greasy black mustache. "You an' me's 'ficials," he said, with dignity, "an' we has burdens that folks don't know. My burden is these here folks that shoots pa'tridges in July; your burdens is them people who don't pay no road-tax." "One o' them people is Dan McCloud, an' I'm goin' after that road-tax to-night," said Byram. "Can't you wait till I ketch McCloud with them birds?" asked the warden, anxiously. "No, I can't," snapped Byram; "I can't wait for no such thing!" But he spoke without enthusiasm. "Can't we make it a kind o' 'ficial surprise for him, then?" suggested the warden. "Me an' you is 'ficials; your path-masters is 'ficials. We'll all go an' see Dan McCloud, that's what we'll do. How many path-masters hev you got to back you up?" Byram's face grew red as fire. "One," he said; "we ain't a metropolipus." "Well, git your path-master an' come on, anyhow," persisted the game-warden, rising and buttoning his faded coat. "I--I can't," muttered Byram. "Ain't you road-master?" asked Dingman, astonished. "Yes." "Then, can't you git your own path-master to do his dooty an' execoote the statoots?" "You see," stammered Byram, "I app'inted a--a lady." "A what!" cried the game-warden. "A lady," repeated Byram, firmly. "Tell the truth, we 'ain't got no path-master; we've got a path-mistress--Elton's kid, you know--" "Elton?" "Yes." "What hung hisself in his orchard?" "Yes." "His kid? The girl that folks say is sweet on Dan McCloud?" A scowl crisped Byram's face. "It's a lie," he said, thickly. After a silence Byram spoke more calmly. "Old man Elton he didn't leave her nothin'. She done chores around an' taught school some, down to Frog Holler. She's that poor--nothin' but pertaters an' greens for to eat, an' her a-savin' her money for to go to one o' them female institoots where women learn to nurse sick folks." "So you 'pinted her path-master to kinder he'p her along?" "I--I kinder did." "She's only a kid." "Only a kid. 'Bout sixteen." "An' it's against the law?" "Kinder 'gainst it." The game-warden pretended to stifle a yawn. "Well," he said, petulantly. "I never knowed nothin' about it--if they ask me over to Spencers." "That's right! An' I'll he'p you do your dooty regardin' them pa'tridges," said Byram, quickly. "Dan McCloud's a loafer an' no good. When he's drunk he raises hell down to the store. Foxville is jest plumb sick o' him." "Is it?" inquired the game-warden, with interest.