“I'm the only one he's charging with it,” broke in the merchant, “and that settles it. I'm not an overgrown baby, Pole. Right now you are trying to get me to act in a way that would make you heartily ashamed of me. You might as well dry up. I'm not going to run. I'm going to meet Jeff Wade, fair and square, as a man--as I'd want him to meet me under like circumstances.” “My God! my God!” Pole said under his breath. “Hush! thar comes Mayhew. I reckon you don't want him to know about it.” “No, he'd be in for swearing out a peace-warrant. For all you do, Pole, don't let him onto it. I've got to write a letter or two before Wade comes; don't let the old man interrupt me.” “I'll feel like I'm dancin' on yore scaffold,” the farmer growled. “I want my mind free to--to study. Thar! he's stopped to speak to Joe Peters. Say, Nelson, I see Mel Jones down thar talkin' to a squad in front o' the door; they've got the'r heads packed together as close as sardines. I see through it now. My Lord, I see through _that_.” “What is it you see through, Pole?” Floyd looked up from Wade's note, his brow furrowed. “Why, Mel's Jeff Wade's fust cousin; he's onto what's up, an' he's confidin' it to a few; it will be all over this town in five minutes, an' the women an' childem will hide out to keep from bein' hit. Thar they come in at the front now, an' they are around the old man like red ants over the body of a black one. He'll be onto it in a minute. Thar, see? What did I tell you? He's comin' this way. You can tell by the old duck's waddle that he is excited.” Floyd muttered something that escaped Pole's ears, and began writing. Mayhew came on rapidly, tapping his heavy cane on the floor, his eyes glued on the placid profile of his young partner. “What's this I hear?” he panted. “Has Jeff Wade sent you word that he is comin' here to shoot you?” Pole laughed out merrily, and, stepping forward, he slapped the old merchant familiarly on the arm. “It's a joke, Mr. Mayhew,” he said. “I put it up on Mel Jones as me'n him rid in town; he's always makin' fun o' women fer tattlin', an' said I to myse'f, said I, 'I'll see how deep that's rooted under yore hide, old chap,' an' so I made that up out o' whole cloth. I was jest tellin' Nelson, here, that I'd bet a hoss to a ginger-cake that Mel 'ud not be able to keep it, an' he hain't. Nelson, by George, the triflin' skunk let it out inside o' ten minutes, although he swore to me he'd keep his mouth shet. I'll make 'im set up the drinks on that.” “Well, I don't like such jokes,” Mayhew fumed. “Jokes like that and what's at the bottom of them don't do a reputable house any good. And I don't want any more of them. Do you understand, sir?”