Constables and jails were like superstitious terrors to Jehoshaphat. He had never set eyes on the brass buttons and stone walls of the law. “Oh no—_no_!” he protested. “He wouldn’t! Not in _jail_!” “The law,” Wull warned, with grim delight, “will put you in jail.” “He _couldn’t_!” Jehoshaphat complained. “As I takes it, the law sees fair play atween men. That’s what he was _made_ for. I ’low he ought t’ put you in jail for raisin’ the price o’ flour t’ eighteen; but not me—not for what I’m bound t’ do, Mister Wull, law or no law, as God lives! ’Twouldn’t be right, sir, if he put me in jail for that.” “The law will.” “But,” Jehoshaphat still persisted, doggedly, “’twouldn’t be _right_!’ The trader fell into a muse. “I’m come,” Jehoshaphat reminded him, “for the flour.” “You can’t have it.” “Oh, dear!” Jehoshaphat sighed. “My, my! Pshaw! I ’low, then, us’ll just have t’ _take_ it.” Jehoshaphat went to the door of the shop. It was cold and gloomy in the shop. He opened the door. The public of Satan’s Trap, in the persons of ten men of the place, fathers of families (with the exception of Timothy Yule, who had qualified upon his expectations), trooped over the greasy floor, their breath cloudy in the frosty air, and crowded into the little office, in the wake of Jehoshaphat Rudd. They had the gravity of mien, the set faces, the compassionate eyes, the merciless purpose, of a jury. The shuffling subsided. It was once more quiet in the little office. Timothy Yule’s hatred got the better of his sense of propriety: he laughed, but the laugh expired suddenly, for Jehoshaphat Rudd’s hand fell with unmistakable meaning upon his shoulder. John Wull faced them. “I ’low, Mister Wull,” said Jehoshaphat, diffidently, “that we wants the storehouse key.” The trader put the key in his pocket. “The key,” Jehoshaphat objected; “we wants that there key.” “By the Almighty!” old John Wull snarled, “you’ll all go t’ jail for this, if they’s a law in Newfoundland.” The threat was ignored. “Don’t hurt un, lads,” Jehoshaphat cautioned; “for he’s so wonderful tender. He’ve not been bred the way _we_ was. He’s wonderful old an’ lean an’ brittle,” he added, gently; “so I ’low we’d best be careful.” John Wull’s resistance was merely technical.