“Not wishin’ to interfere in a fair fight—it’s me, parson, Sheriff Peters—not wishin’ to interfere in a fair fight, I’ve been a-lookin’ on here, where I’d tracked the thief myself, and would have grabbed him if you hadn’t been about half a minute ahead of me. And if you want to know my honest opinion—my professional opinion—it’s just this: There was stuff for a splendid sheriff spiled when you went a-preachin’. How you’d get along when it come to collectin’ taxes, I don’t know, never havin’ been at any meetin’ where you took up a collection; but when it come to an arrest, you’d be just chain-lightning ground down to a pint. The pris’ner’s yours, and so’s all the rewards that’s offered for him, though they’re not offered for a man of the name _he_ gives. But honest, now, don’t you think there’s a chance of mitigatin’ circumstances in his case? Let’s talk it over—I’ll help you tie him so he can’t slip you.” The sheriff lighted a pocket-lantern and placed it in a window-frame behind him, then he tied the prisoner’s feet and legs in several places, tied his hands behind his back, sat him upon the ground with his face toward the door, cocked a pistol, and then beckoned the preacher toward a corner. The sheriff opened his pocketbook and took out a paper, whispering as he did so: “I’ve carried this as a sort of a curiosity, but it may come in handy now. Let’s see—confound it!—the poor old fellow is describing the child just as it was fifteen years ago. Oh, here’s a point or two!—’brown eyes, black hair’—oh, bully! here’s the best thing yet!—’first joint of the left fore-finger gone.’” The sheriff snatched the light, and both men hastened to examine the prisoner’s hand. After a single glance their eyes met and each set of optics inquired of the other. At length the sheriff remarked: “He’s _your_ pris’ner.” The circuit-rider flushed and then turned pale. He took the lantern from the sheriff, turned the light full on the prisoner’s face, and said: “Prisoner, suppose you were to find that your father was alive?” The horse-thief replied with a piercing glance, which was full of wonder, but said not a word. A moment or two passed, and the preacher said: “Suppose you were to find that your father was alive, and had searched everywhere for _you_, and that he thought of nothing but you, and was all the time hoping for your return—that he had grown old before his time, all because of his longing and sorrow for you?” The thief dropped his eyes, then his face twitched; at last he burst out crying. “Your father _is_ alive; he isn’t far from this cabin; he’s very sick; I’ve just left him. Nothing but the sight of you will do him any good; but I think so much of him that I’d rather kill you this instant than let him know what business you’ve been in.” “Them’s my sentiments, too,” remarked the sheriff.