Of a sudden Hiram began to sniff an odor that seemed strange about a cart-shed. At least, no wise farmer would have naphtha, or gasoline, in his outbuildings, for it would make his insurance invalid. But that was the smell Hiram discovered. And he was not long in finding the cause of it. Back in a dark corner, upon a beam, lay a big sling-shot--one of those that boys swing around their heads with a stone in the heel of it, and then let go one end to shoot the missile to a distance. The leather loop was saturated with the gasoline, and it had been scorched, too. The smell of burning, as well as the smell of gasoline, was very distinct. Hiram took the sling-shot with him, and went up to the Dickerson house. He had got along so well with the Dickersons for these past months that he honestly shrank from “starting anything” now. Yet he could not overlook this flagrant piece of malicious mischief. Indeed, it was more than that. Two stacks had already been burned, and it might be some of the outbuildings--or even Mrs. Atterson's house--next time! Besides, Hiram felt himself responsible for his employer's property. The old lady could not afford to lose the fodder, and Hiram was determined that both of the burned stacks should be paid for in full. He looked through the window of the Dickerson kitchen. The family was around the supper table-Mr. and Mrs. Dickerson, Pete, and the children, little and big. It was a cheerful family group, after all. Rough and uncouth as the farmer was, Dickerson likely had his feelings like other people. Instead of bursting right in at the door as had been Hiram's intention, and accusing Pete to his face, the indignant young fellow hesitated. He hadn't any sympathy for Pete, not the slightest. If he gave him--or the elder Dickerson--a chance to clear up matters by making good to Mrs. Atterson for what she had lost, Hiram Strong decided that he was being very lenient indeed. He stepped quietly onto the porch and rapped on the door. Then he backed off and waited for some response from within. “Hullo, Mr. Strong!” exclaimed the farmer, coming himself to the “door. Why! is that your stack burning?” “Yes, sir,” said Hiram, quietly. “Another one!” “That is the second,” admitted Hiram. “But I don't propose that another shall be set afire in just the same way.” Sam Dickerson stepped suddenly down to the young farmer's level, and asked: “What do you mean by that? Do you know how it got afire?” Hiram held out the sling-shot in the light of his lantern. “A rag, saturated with gasoline, was wrapped around a pebble, then set afire, and stone and blazing rag were shot from our line fence into the fodderstack. “I found the footprints of the incendiary on New Year's morning at the same place. And I'll wager a good deal that your son Pete's boots will fit the footprints over there at the line now!” Sam Dickerson's face had turned exceedingly red, and then paled. But he spoke very quietly.