“You don't worry me,” I replied. “I've not had a letter to answer in three days, and not a soul comes here to talk about business or anything else. I sit and dream, and wish I had something to do out there in the sunshine. Your work is better than reading words, words--nothing but words.” “You ain't busy; hain't got anything to do here that might keep you? Nothin'?” “Not a thing. I'm sick of Blackstone and all Commentaries.” Suddenly I felt his hand on my shoulder (moving half round in the chair, I had for the moment turned sideways to him), and his voice was surprisingly hard and quick: “Then I swear you in as a Deputy-Sheriff of the United States, and of this State of Kansas; and I charge you to bring in and deliver at the Sheriff's house, in this county of Elwood, Tom Williams, alive or dead, and--there's your fee, five dollars and twenty-five cents!” and he laid the money on the table. Before the singular speech was half ended I had swung round facing him, with a fairly accurate understanding of what he meant. But the moment for decision had come with such sharp abruptness, that I still did not realize my position, though I replied defiantly as if accepting the charge: “I've not got a weapon.” “The boys allowed you mightn't hev, and so I brought some along. You ken suit your hand.” While speaking he produced two or three revolvers of different sizes, and laid them before me. Dazed by the rapid progress of the plot, indignant, too, at the trick played upon me, I took up the nearest revolver and looked at it almost without seeing it. The Sheriff seemed to take my gaze for that of an expert's curiosity. “It shoots true,” he said meditatively, “plumb true; but it's too small to drop a man. I guess it wouldn't stop any one with grit in him.” My anger would not allow me to consider his advice; I thrust the weapon in my pocket: “I haven't got a buggy. How am I to get to Osawotamie?” “Mine's hitched up outside. You ken hev it.” Rising to my feet I said: “Then we can go.” We had nearly reached the door of the office, when the Sheriff stopped, turned his back upon the door, and looking straight into my eyes said: “Don't play foolish. You've no call to go. Ef you're busy, ef you've got letters to write, anythin' to do--I'll tell the boys you sed so, and that'll be all; that'll let you out.” Half-humorously, as it seemed to me, he added: “You're young and a tenderfoot. You'd better stick to what you've begun upon. That's the way to do somethin'.--I often think it's the work chooses us, and we've just got to get down and do it.” “I've told you I had nothing to do,” I retorted angrily; “that's the truth. Perhaps” (sarcastically) “this work chooses me.” The Sheriff moved away from the door.