CHAPTER XVII. A LIFE AT STAKE. When Brother Wright early next morning discovered the loss of the brown mare, he was thrown into a state of the most unphilosophic rage. He had not a moment’s doubt as to what had happened, nor a moment’s hesitation as to the course he should pursue. He hurried back to the house and without any effort at concealment got out his revolver and stuck it into his belt. “Wright,” said Mary, his wife, “whatever have you got there?” She was filled with amazement. “A pistol,” replied he with firmness. “What are you going to do with it?” “Shoot a damned horse-thief, who has been and broken into the stable and stolen Queen Katharine.” He jammed down his hat on his head and made for the door, while Mary Winkle gave a scream that would have done credit to the finest lady in the land. “You shan’t do any such thing! You will be killed! What do you know about pistols? You will be shot by those murderous horse-thieves, and what will become of me—and Willette?” Mary Winkle urged the very arguments that have before now been known to make brave men falter and turn back from running risks. “I—I shan’t do anything rash,” said Wright sheepishly. “I’ll just go round and rouse the neighbours and see if we can’t catch him, he can’t have got very far as yet. What beats me is why Pluto didn’t bark. The dog’s a fool, I’ll drown him.” “Oh, I am thankful he didn’t bark, for you might have been dead by now if he had. You shan’t drown him, for he has saved your life. Horse-thieves are desperate men and wouldn’t respect our principles of non-resistance,” said Mary Winkle. “Ahem,” said her husband, tucking the revolver out of sight until required. “What we’ve got to do is to go to Madame and summon an Assembly of Urgency and talk this matter over, and see what the Community is to do. Wright, you can’t go and rouse the neighbours till you’ve got the sanction of the Assembly. You know that is the rule in all important matters, and this is about the most important matter that has ever come up for discussion.” “Damn discussion!” said Wright angrily. “While we’re discussing that thief will get away. Sharp is the word for catching horse-thieves.” “But sharp is not the word for determining the action of Perfection City in an important juncture like the present. Wright, I am surprised at you, and also at your language,” said his wife severely. “Oh these infernal horse-thieves would provoke a saint,—not that I am one,” said Wright, still in a rage most unbecoming to a professed non-resistant, and Mary Winkle looked a whole essay full of rebuke at him. She carried the day, however, and together they carried their complaint to Madame.