“You won’t get him though, boys,” said one whom Davies later learned was Seavey, the village postmaster and telegraph operator, a rather youthful person of between twenty-five and thirty, as they passed his door. “He’s got two deputies in there with him, or did have, and they say he’s going to take him over to Clayton.” At the first street corner they were joined by the several men who had followed the sheriff. “He tried to give us the slip,” they volunteered excitedly, “but he’s got the nigger in the house, there, down in the cellar. The deputies ain’t with him. They’ve gone somewhere for help--Clayton, maybe.” “How do you know?” “We saw ’em go out that back way. We think we did, anyhow.” A hundred feet from the sheriff’s little white cottage, which backed up against a sloping field, the men parleyed. Then Jake announced that he proposed to go boldly up to the sheriff’s door and demand the negro. “If he don’t turn him out I’ll break in the door an’ take him!” he said. “That’s right! We’ll stand by you, Whitaker,” commented several. By now the throng of unmounted natives had gathered. The whole village was up and about, its one street alive and running with people. Heads appeared at doors and windows. Riders pranced up and down, hallooing. A few revolver shots were heard. Presently the mob gathered even closer to the sheriff’s gate, and Jake stepped forward as leader. Instead, however, of going boldly up to the door as at first it appeared he would, he stopped at the gate, calling to the sheriff. “Hello, Mathews!” “Eh, eh, eh!” bellowed the crowd. The call was repeated. Still no answer. Apparently to the sheriff delay appeared to be his one best weapon. Their coming, however, was not as unexpected as some might have thought. The figure of the sheriff was plainly to be seen close to one of the front windows. He appeared to be holding a double-barreled shotgun. The negro, as it developed later, was cowering and chattering in the darkest corner of the cellar, hearkening no doubt to the voices and firing of the revolvers outside. Suddenly, and just as Jake was about to go forward, the front door of the house flew open, and in the glow of a single lamp inside appeared first the double-barreled end of the gun, followed immediately by the form of Mathews, who held the weapon poised ready for a quick throw to the shoulder. All except Jake fell back. “Mr. Mathews,” he called deliberately, “we want that nigger!” “Well, you can’t git ’im!” replied the sheriff. “He’s not here.” “Then what you got that gun fer?” yelled a voice. Mathews made no answer. “Better give him up, Mathews,” called another, who was safe in the crowd, “or we’ll come in an’ take him!” “No you won’t,” said the sheriff defiantly. “I said the man wasn’t here. I say it ag’in. You couldn’t have him if he was, an’ you can’t come in my house! Now if you people don’t want trouble you’d better go on away.” “He’s down in the cellar!” yelled another.