And he grimaced mockingly at the figure of a man busily writing at a rough table by the open window. Then, believing he must justify his display of independence, he turned to the group and with drunken gravity declared: “The time’s past, boys, when we have to hide an’ snoop round. There’s a big change comin’, an’ them that’s got the nerve will come out on top. The time’s past when court-houses can skeer us into walkin’ light when we feel like walkin’ heavy. I know. I’ve got news that’ll—” “Now, shut up!” gritted Polcher, darting out the door and whipping a butcher-knife from under his apron. “Another word and I’ll slit your throat and be thanked by our masters.” As Hester felt the knife prick the skin over his Adam’s apple, his jaw sagged in terror. Sobered by the assault, he realized he had gone too far. Instantly the loungers crowded about him to prevent outsiders from witnessing the tableau. Old Thatch whispered: “He’s dirty drunk. ‘Nolichucky Jack’ must ’a’ heard some of it. I seen him stop writing and cock his ear.” “To —— with Chucky Jack!” Hester feebly defied. “I ain’t said nothin’.” “If you had finished what you’d begun, you’d never said anything more,” hissed Polcher. “You can drink your skin full every hour in the day, and that’s all right. But you’ve got to keep your trap closed. I’ve tried soft means, and now I’m going to rip your insides out if you don’t keep shut.” Hester glanced down at his own bony hands and the long finger-nails, pared to points for the express purpose of scooping out an opponent’s eyes, then shifted his gaze to the grim faces of his companions. He read nothing but indorsement for Polcher. “I can’t fight a whole crowd,” he jerkily admitted. “You don’t have to fight none of us,” warned Polcher, lowering the knife and hiding it under his apron. “All you’ve got to do is to fight yourself, to keep your tongue from wagging. You say you’ve brought something. Is it for me?” “No, it ain’t for ye,” sullenly retorted Hester, his small eyes glowing murderously. “Then keep it for the right man. Don’t go to peddling it to Chucky Jack and all his friends,” said Polcher. Glimpsing a stranger swinging down the brown trail that answered for the settlement’s one street, he motioned with his head for the men to pass inside. To mollify the bully he added— “You understand, Lon, it’s yourself as much as it’s us you’ll be hurting by too much talk.” “It’s that last drink of that——peach brandy,” mumbled Hester. “I’ll stick to rye after this. I can carry that.” “Now you’re talking like a man of sense,” warmly approved Polcher, clapping him heartily on the shoulder. “Lord, what fools we all be at times when we git too much licker in. The boss combed me once till I thought he was going to kill me just because I got to speaking too free. Now let’s join the boys and try that rye.”