“If you saw him? Yes, with a roll of cash in your fist,” laughed Freeman. “What would you do? Kiss him? The best thing you can do is hunt up two hundred ducats.” “That's impossible, of course,” Henrietta said flatly. “How long will he wait?” “He'll be quick enough, don't fret!” “Freeman, if I think I can do some good by seeing him, may I?” “I don't care a hoot what you do,” Freeman Todder said. “And I don't care a hoot what happens. That's how I feel.” Henrietta put her hand ever so briefly on his arm. “I know. And I'm sorry. It is all my fault. I'll do the best I can. I must go back now.” “So long,” Freeman said, and went on down the hill. Henrietta turned and went toward the house, trying to make her step springy and her face bright. She felt very old and worn. As she neared the gate Gay came across the street and Henrietta waited for her and slipped her arm through Gay's and forced a smile. “_You_ look happy,” Gay laughed. “Happy? Why shouldn't I?” asked Henrietta. “I feel like a Pippa ready to chirp, 'All's right with the world,' this fair morn.” “I honestly believe you're the youngest thing I know,” said Gay, and she meant it. She was a bit jealous. She had seen Henrietta place her hand on Freeman Todder's arm and, as such thoughts will come, had come the thought that Henrietta might be in love with Freeman. What more the two women might have said was interrupted by the rattle of a cart that drove to the gutter and stopped at the Redding gate. In the vehicle were Harvey Redding, the newly self-appointed saint, as fat as ever, and a man of spare and awkward construction whose long neck suggested that of an ostrich in the act of swallowing an orange. He was in his shirt sleeves, without a waistcoat, but on one of his suspenders straps he wore one of the largest nickel-plated stars that ever adorned a human being. This star bore the legend, “Riverbânk Municipal Police; Canine Division, No. I,” and had been presented to Officer Schulig by a group of playful citizens with a speech. While properly credentialed as a deputy member of the Riverbank police force and as full and complete Dog Warden, Officer Schulig now received no pay and considered it fitting to do no work except when driven to it by direct orders from the Town Marshal. As he said himself, he had “soured onto the schob” when the City Council took away the twenty-five cent fee for capturing and impounding stray dogs. He had even given up wearing his star in public, except when it was absolutely necessary, because it had become the custom of the lighter-minded to shield their eyes when the star approached, as if its glory was too great. At the same time these ungodly rascals would read the badge, saying, “Rifferbangk Muntzipipple Poleetz. Canine Divitzion. No one,” this having been the manner in which Officer Schulig had read it upon its presentation. What made it more annoying to Officer Schulig was that when any one read “Canine Divitzion.