“You all see,” said Harkless, raising his voice a little, “what a simple cheat it is--and old as Pharaoh. Yet a lot of you stood around and lost your own money, and stared like idiots, and let Hartley Bowlder lose eighty-odd dollars on a shell racket, and not one of you lifted a hand. How hard did you work for what these two cheap crooks took from you? Ah!” he cried, “it is because you were greedy that they robbed you so easily. You know it's true. It's when you want to get something for nothing that the 'confidence men' steal the money you sweat for and make the farmer a laughing stock. And _you_, Jim Bardlock, Town Marshal!--you, who confess that you 'went in the game sixty cents' worth, yourself--” His eyes were lit with wrath as he raised his accusing hand and levelled it at the unhappy municipal. The Town Marshal smiled uneasily and deprecatingly about him, and, meeting only angry glances, hearing only words of condemnation, he passed his hand unsteadily over his fat mustache, shifted from one leg to the other and back again, looked up, looked down, and then, an amiable and pleasure-loving man, beholding nothing but accusation and anger in heaven and earth, and wishing nothing more than to sink into the waters under the earth, but having no way of reaching them, finding his troubles quite unbearable, and unable to meet the manifold eye of man, he sought relief after the unsagacious fashion of a larger bird than he. His burly form underwent a series of convulsions not unlike sobs, and he shut his eyes tightly and held them so, presenting a picture of misery unequalled in the memory of any spectator. Harkless's outstretched hand began to shake. “You!” he tried to continue--“you, a man elected to----” There came from the crowd the sound of a sad, high-keyed voice, drawling: “That's a nice vest Jim's got on, but it ain't hardly the feathers fitten for an ostrich, is it?” The editor's gravity gave way; he broke into a ringing laugh and turned again to the shell-men. “Give up the boy's money. Hurry.” “Step down here and git it,” said the one who had spoken. There was a turbulent motion in the crowd, and a cry arose, “Run 'em out! Ride 'em on a rail! Tar and feathers! Run 'em out o' town!” “I wouldn't dilly-dally long if I were you,” said Harkless, and his advice seemed good to the shell-men. A roll of bills, which he counted and turned over to the elder Bowlder, was sullenly placed in his hand. The fellow who had not yet spoken clutched the journalist's sleeve with his dirty hand. “We hain't done wit' youse,” he said, hoarsely. “Don't belief it, not fer a minute, see?” The Town Marshal opened his eyes briskly, and placing a hand on each of the gamblers, said: “I hereby do arrest your said persons, and declare you my prisoners.” The cry rose again, louder: “Run 'em out! String 'em up! Hang them! Hang them!” and a forward rush was made.