"My soul, man! Are you the constable?" gasped John Ryder. "Sh! I'm storekeeper to you. Don't speak loud enough for the constable in me to hear," chuckled the old fellow. He went to the door and blew a horn. "That'll call my son, Sam. He'll 'tend to things--and weigh the coal. I sha'n't be back 'fore supper time. Sam'll gather the clans, Mr. Ryder, and see that they work right. You ought to put a tidy lot of coal into them hotel bins before the constable gits back," and the storekeeper promptly disappeared. CHAPTER XVII THE PRIVATE BUCCANEER The offer of double pay brought even some of the neighboring farmers to life. Within an hour a string of carts of all descriptions wound its way along the village street to the spur railroad track. Ryder was there, chewing on a cigar, watching the first loads taken from the cars. The station master came running, mad as a hatter. "You can't do that, you derned fool!" he shouted, shaking his fist in John Ryder's face. "You watch and see if I can't." "But you'll get into trouble. You'll be arrested. These fellers will be arrested. Why, hang it! it's high-handed piracy, that's what it is." "If anybody is arrested I stand ready to pay the bill," Ryder coolly told him. "I tell you this is a case of necessity." Naturally the agent did not see it that way, and he rushed to wire his headquarters. Of course he got orders to stop the robbery and came back and bawled commands that nobody paid any attention to. "You'll get neck deep into trouble over this," the agent sputtered to Ryder. "There is a sheriff on the way here to arrest you." "All right. He'll find me at the hotel," and having seen the first car cleaned out he strolled back to Pinewood Inn. He knew there would be enough coal in the bins to last over Sunday at least. Two carloads was enough anyway, and he ordered the work to cease when the second gondola was clean. He left two cars for the Lossing Soap Factory. Sam Crabtree furnished the cash needed and he paid his teamsters; and when John Ryder entered the hotel office again it was past eleven o'clock. Steam was already knocking in the pipes, and the hotel guests were beginning to smile once more. Few had tried to leave. A couple of unattached men had gone on the eight o'clock combination that jounced down to the Junction over the worst ballasted road in seven states. One man had cranked up his automobile and tried to get away by the back roads; but had come limping in again, having been drawn out of the mire by a farmer with a team of horses. The hotel motorbus was still across the inlet; and it was broken down anyway. It would take several days to repair it. A few of the guests, with light baggage only, had arranged to be punted across the inlet and would walk to Barr, the station on the main line.