In Clem Sanders’s ingenuous face was expressed at this moment a sudden illogical, full-fledged anger and doubt, as in the slow processes of his brain was revolved the idea of the stranger’s claim to consideration on the score of a friendship with the Strobe family. He repudiated it as a figment. The normal repulsion for a cold-blooded lie, as he fancied this to be, chilled even his good nature. He had been weak, he knew, in treacherously revealing the secrets of his associates to Marcella, and he had incurred thereby heavy risks. He was willing, since it was her wish, that this folly should be utilized to save the man’s life. But he had revolted from sharing in the subsequent deceptions, from the double-masked character which he was forced to assume, one of the chief of the vigilantes and the secret ally of the culprit. His conclusions had a certain quality of absolute conviction, which triumphantly dispensed with logic. “Ye don’t know the Strobe fambly!” he said suddenly. “Ye never hearn o’ nare one o’ ’em till this evenin’ in yer born days,—’thout ’twar through yer frien’ Jake Baintree’s vaporin’s an’ maunderin’s ’bout folks he ain’t fit ter ’sociate with. Eli bein’ a candidate fur office so frequent, he hev a heap o’ wuthless folks a-hangin’ round him, created by God A’mighty fur nuthin’ in this worl’ but ter vote at the polls. Naw, sir! ye ain’t reg’lar ’quainted with none o’ the Strobe fambly!” He had ceased to work at the anvil. His brow showed several corrugations in straight lines, his eyebrows were elevated, his narrow, long eyes were grave, his square jaw was hard set. He still held the uplifted hammer in his hand, and as a specimen of physical force he might have been somewhat awe-inspiring to the slightly built stranger; but the paramount impression which he received was that this was Marcella’s informant, whose name she had not disclosed,—this bold and inconsequent Vulcan, the traitor to the League of Vigilantes. “Now crow a little louder, my cock, and I’ll have _your_ friends wring _your_ neck, in short order!” he said to himself, feeling still master of the situation. Outwardly he was dumb, silently marking the blacksmith’s demonstration with watchful eyes, leaning against the elevated hearth, the tips of his fingers thrust in the pockets of his trousers. “Clem Sanders,” said the blacksmith’s mother, much displeased, “nuthin’ in this worl’ air so becomin’ ter a fool ez a shet mouth. Then folks kin only jedge o’ what God A’mighty war in his wisdom disposed ye should look like.” But Clem, usually a dutiful son, gave her no notice. “I’m a-reelin’ ye out cornsider’ble line, ennyhow,” he continued. “I’ll haul ye in, though, in about three shakes o’ a dead sheep’s tail, ef ye go ter tryin’ ter purtend ez ye an’ Jake Baintree air favored guests yander at Strobe’s.”