“I wisht I knew,” says Mark. “If we found him he wouldn’t come back,” says Binney. “He’d be afraid of the sheriff.” Mark slapped his leg. “There’s somethin’ for us to d-d-do,” says he. “We kin fix it so George dast come back.” So he sent Binney after the mail, and Tallow to order in a car to make a shipment, and him and I went off to see the deputy sheriff, whose name was Whoppleham. Mostly you could find him down by the blacksmith shop pitching horseshoes. He was about the best horseshoe-pitcher in the county. He was there, all right, pitching with old Jim Battershaw, and they was down on their knees measuring from the peg to a couple of horseshoes with a piece of string to find out which was the nearest, and quarreling about it as if it was the most important thing that had happened in the world since Noah built his ark. We waited for them to decide which horseshoe was nearest, but they couldn’t decide, and they wouldn’t call it even. I calc’late they’d have gone for the county surveyor to measure them up scientific if just then Battershaw’s setter-dog and Whoppleham’s shepherd-dog hadn’t got tired of waiting and started an argument of their own. It was quite considerable of an argument, and it come swinging and clawing and snarling right across the lot to where the horseshoes was and settled down to business there. The way them dogs clawed into the ground and kicked up the dust was a caution, and old Battershaw and Whoppleham dancing around the edge of it, hollering like all-git-out and trying to stop it. Well, all of a sudden the setter give up the ship and tucked his tail between his legs and scooted, with the shepherd after him lickety-split. When they was gone and we looked at the peg and the horseshoes there wasn’t anything left to argue about. Those dogs had kicked them galley west and come nigh to digging up the peg. It was a fine thing for both those men, because it gave them something to argue about all the rest of their lives, with no chance of having the argument settled. I’ll bet that in ten years they’ll still be slanging and sassing each other about that game, each of them insisting his horseshoe was the nearest. That’s the kind of old coots they are. Well, it gave Mark his chance to speak to Whoppleham, and he done so. “Mr. Sheriff,” says he, “kin I s-s-speak to you for a m-minute?” “I’m busy,” says the sheriff. “This is official b-b-business,” says Mark. “Oh!... Hum!... Official, eh? Somebody been breakin’ the law hereabouts? Out with it, young feller. Sheriff Whoppleham’s the man for you.” He pointed down to the star on his suspenders and says: “The people has confidence in me, I guess, or they wouldn’t never have put me into this here position of trust and confidence. I guess they knew who would be able to clean out the criminals of these parts. They knowed a venturesome man when they seen one, and a man that wouldn’t stop at nothin’ in the int’rests of justice. What crime’s been did, and who done it?”