“The day o’ the hangin’ come. I’d ben gittin’ wus an’ wus ’bout the Sher’ff’s dotter. I didn’t keer much ’bout goin’, but I hated to leave the ole jail. I’d a heap sight ruther ’a’ gone, tho’, wit’ flyin’ colors an’ hed her sorry then to ’a’ ben kicked out to trampin’. Em’ly didn’t give me breakfas’ that mornin’. Instead, the Sher’ff served me chicken an’ eggs an’ a lot of other things they only gives a tramp ’fore they hangs ’im. He togged me out in a nice fittin’ black suit and tuk me out ter go. Mighty, but they was a crowd to see me off! The jail-yard was filled with prom’nent citizens; the housetops an’ trees around the wall was jest black wit’ men an’ boys. I braced right up an’ never feazed a bit when I seen the rope. The Sher’ff sayd I could make a speech, so I gits up an’ sais, easy like,’Me frien’s,’ I sais, ‘I haven’t no regrets in leavin’ this ’ere world, fer I hain’t been onduly conf’table. It’s the jail I’ll miss, an’ the Sher’ff’s pretty dotter. I’ve----’ “Jest then the Sher’ff yelled, ‘Hold on!’ “I turned an’ seen him readin’ a letter. It had come from Noah Punk out in Kansas. He sayd he wrote bekase he seen be the papers they was hangin’ a man fer killin’ him. He wanted to explain that he was still livin’ an’ hed only run away from Mrs. Punk. The blood on his shoes come from his steppin’ on a piece of glass. He’d tuk off his boots an’ gone west on a freight. “When the crowd hear that they give the Sher’ff a groan. The Sher’ff he got mad, an’ tuk all me new duds, give me me ole ones an’ turned me looset. “I was a common ord’nary tramp an’ I was clean discouratched. I knowd I’d never have Em’ly feed me agin ’less I got back in that jail, so I set right down on the steps. The Sher’ff jest wouldn’t ’rest me but druv me off wit’ a club. I busted two o’ his winders next day. Still he wouldn’t ’rest me. I broke three more winders an’ he nabbed me. I was nigh tickled to death wit’ me luck. But then I hain’t no luck. That there man treated me jest the way a farmer does a cat that eats chickens. He put me on a train, tuk me out to Altony an’ turned me looset.” The Tramp sighed and puffed vigorously on his pipe. “An’ now what air ye doin’?” asked the Storekeeper. “What else ’ud a man do?” replied the traveller. “I’m hustlin’ jest ez fast ez I kin to git back to that jail. An’ I’m goin’ ter git in it. I’ll never eat another potaty onless it comes from the hand o’ the Sher’ff’s dotter.” “Does you know what I wisht?” inquired the Chronic Loafer earnestly. “What?” “I wisht Noah Punk hedn’t wrote that letter.” CHAPTER XVII. _Hiram Gum, the Fiddler._