That winter I paid a hasty visit to my folks, and was astonished to hear that there was a break-jail indictment out against me, and that I was likely to be arrested at any moment. The indictment had been asked for by District Attorney Lane, so I was told, soon after I’d made the deal with Herbert Bellows. It was said that Lane had expected something from Bellows at the quashing of the burglary charge, but had been turned down. Unable to proceed against Bellows, Lane, out of revenge, asked for the break-jail indictment more than three years after the offence was committed, believing, in that manner, he could make void what Bellows had guaranteed me. However despicable this was on the part of the district attorney, it did seem to me that Bellows, who depended upon Lane to quash the burglary indictment, should have been willing to pay his tool a little of the blackmail money I had paid him. But, as usual, I was the greatest sufferer, the centre upon which the storm created by others beat hardest, and I turned about to face the fresh trouble. Instinctively my hand went down in my pocket. Summoning my brother, I told him I had only a few hours to visit with the folks, for I must be back in New York, as soon as possible, on account of important business matters. Carefully placing two one-hundred dollar bills in an envelope, I sealed it in his presence, handed it to him and said:-- “Go to District Attorney F. F. Lane, and say this to him: ‘My brother George bade me hand you this envelope, and if you retain it, he expects you will put that break-jail indictment in the after pocket in your frock coat, and then sit on a red-hot stove.’” My brother performed his errand faithfully, and I never heard from that source again, except for an extremely unpleasant, though after all amusing, incident. In the following June I had completed a four-day visit with my people, and was on my way home. I boarded the train at Bellows Falls, and we stopped at Charlestown, not many miles away, when my attention was attracted by an unusually long wait at the station. I was on the point of asking for the reason, when old Sheriff Stebbins, the chap I met in the sleighride party the night young Woods and I escaped from Keene jail, came into the coach almost out of breath, and cried loudly:-- “I want ye, durn it! Ye’re my pris’ner, George White.” I was thunderstruck for the instant, to be thus exposed to the other passengers, of which there were quite a number. “All right, sheriff,” I replied, as coolly as I was able, upon recovering myself, “but isn’t there some mistake? It’s pretty rough to accuse a fellow like this, and to interrupt his journey, too. I’ve been home to see the old folks. What have I done?” “Never mind--come outen this--I’ll sheow ye what ye’ve done,” he cried excitedly. “There’s some folks as will be sheoutin’ when they git hold on ye thar in Keene.”