"As these boys' counsel, I advise them not to feed either you or your men," said the lawyer, with twinkling eyes. "They ought to punish you by sitting you in the corner and letting you watch the rest of us eat." "That would be inhuman," declared the sheriff. "Um, man, just smell those fish frying and that coffee steaming." At this moment Chris announced breakfast and all filed in to where the little negro had the table filled with fried fish, quail, ham and eggs, potatoes, hot corn bread and coffee. Silence reigned supreme as the hungry lawyer and his companions attacked the savory food. When at last they had satisfied their gnawing appetites the lawyer turned to the sheriff. "You can run along home now," he said. "Here's that paper I spoke about to show that everything's all right and proper. You can leave the boys with me now." "I'm not sure but that I ought to take charge of their pocketbooks for them if you are going to remain here," said the sheriff, with a laugh. "I'll promise that their pockets will be fuller when I leave them than they are now," said Mr. Bruce. "All right, I'll go then," agreed the sheriff, with a grin. "So long, boys, and the best of luck to you." "That's a true-blue old chap," remarked the lawyer, as the sheriff departed. "We joke pretty rough with each other sometimes, but I like him and I think he likes me." "He is good and kind," Charley agreed. "Do you feel able to talk business now?" Mr. Bruce lit a cigar and puffed in dreamy content for a few minutes before replying. "You know my friend Mr. Jones here, I believe?" he said, with an airy wave of the hand toward the little man whose face at that moment looked as though he had just taken a dose of castor oil. "We have seen him before," said Charley coldly. "Mr. Jones is a remarkable man, a very remarkable man," said the lawyer, and the lad thought he could detect a mocking note in Mr. Bruce's voice as he continued. "Like many other remarkable men, however, Mr. Jones has not until the present time been able to gratify his greatest desire and ambition. Is that not correct, Jones?" "Go on. You're doing the talking," said the little man grimly. "That's so, I am," said Mr. Bruce, with the air of one who had just been informed of a startling fact. "You're a man of unusual observation and intelligence, Jones. Well, gentlemen, even in childhood Mr. Jones gave evidence of what was to be his ruling passion in life. Before he had reached the age of five, he nearly lost a finger in trying to discover how his mother's clothes-wringer worked. Your mother did have a clothes-wringer, didn't she, Jones?" "That was before the clothes-wringers came into use," growled the little man testily. "Can't you come to the point?" "Dear me, so it was," agreed the lawyer. "I have got my facts all mixed some way. Well, at the age of six, Mr. Jones was licked by his father for taking the family lawn-mower to pieces to discover what made it cut grass."