The owner behind the counter uttered a cry of terror, and ducked his head out of sight, while the clinking of breaking glass followed his disappearance, a big pitcher having been upset and rolled off onto the floor. So, all in all, it was a pretty exciting scene for a while. Ragged Rob spoke next, at the same time stepping forward to meet the officer fearlessly: “Who are you looking for, Whalen?” “That chap behind ye.” “Name him and you may have him. But not till you do,” replied Little Hickory, defiantly. “I reckon names don’t matter when we run down sich covies.” “They do in this case. This ain’t the man you are after, Whalen!” “W’at d’ye know erbout it, Little Hickory?” “All there is to be known, Whalen. Can’t ye see this is a hayseed from the country? Your man is a thorough-bred. Oh, I know who you are after.” “I reckon a man’s a man,” muttered the officer, who appeared as if he had seen that he had made a mistake, but disliked to own up to it. “Half an hour ago your man was steering toward the point, Whalen. ’Pears to me, with sich a reward at stake, I wouldn’t lose any more time with sich an old duffer as this covey, who won’t be worth a cent to ye after all yer trouble.” Whalen could see the truth of this statement, and he cleared his way to get out by asking: “You ain’t giving me misleader, Little Hickory?” “No, Whalen. I advise ye to get on to the trail while the scent is fresh.” Without another word the officer turned about, and, still followed by his crowd, left the saloon. Deacon Cornhill stood staring after the departed officer and his men for some time in silence, while Ragged Rob resumed work upon his shoes. Brattle’s head reappeared above the top of the counter, coming into sight slowly and with evident caution on the part of the owner, as if he was in doubt about the wisdom of the move. “You haven’t answered my question,” said the bootblack, bringing Deacon Cornhill back to his situation. “Can my friends come with me?” “Sart’in; every one of them. How many are there?” Rob shook his head, though evidently not in reply to the other’s question, but relative to some thought in his mind. Presently he said: “You are very kind, sir, but it cannot be. This is my life, and I could not fit into another. Good-day, sir; but, stay! I’ll not leave you in the gutter this time. If you want to find a stopping place for the night I will show you the way.” Feeling that it would be useless to press his wishes further then, Deacon Cornhill followed him in silence, though resolved in his mind to renew the subject at his first opportunity. In the midst of their rapid advance he suddenly became aware of the presence of another boy who was five or six years younger than Rob. He was more ragged than the other; in fact, he was little but rags, though there was a saucy defiance in his pinched, unwashed features which showed that he had little care for his personal appearance, or what another might think.