The marshal did not grin. If Kite wanted to act that way, all right. It was the little man’s privilege. After all, he was outwardly respectable enough, a pillar of the church, and all that. “Thought you might be interested,” said Jim. “I am,” said Kite. “I believe in the free sale of liquor. Every man must have an opinion, one way or the other.” Jim considered that. Then he got up. “Well,” he said, “I’ve passed the word around. Don’t know any one that’s planning to keep on selling, do you?” “No, of course not.” “Because if you do,” said Jim slowly, “tell ’em not to do it. Because if there’s any turns up, any selling, I’m going to come and ask you about it, Kite.” Kite boiled up out of his chair and waved his fist. “Get out of here, you rat!” he raged, holding his voice to a monotonous whisper that was more deadly than an outcry would have been. “Get out of here, before I....” “Before you what?” Jim asked; and Kite checked himself, and pulled at his side whiskers, and sat down abruptly, staring at the desk before him. Jim left him there. As he emerged into the street, he began to whistle. The whistle was ragged, but the tune could be identified. Jim was whistling: “‘There’ll be a Hot Time in the Old Town To-night.’” CHAPTER II THE BREWING STORM Wint lay awake for a while, the night after he had given his orders to Radabaugh. He had many things to occupy his thoughts. There was in him none of the elation which might have been expected; he had no zest for the fight that was ahead of him. He was, rather, depressed and doubtful of the wisdom of what he had done, and doubtful of his own strength and determination to carry it through. He was acutely aware that a great many people would say: “Well, Wint’s got a nerve. A fish like him, trying to make Hardiston dry. I’ll bet he’s got a cellar full.” They would say this, and they would have a right to say it. Wint thought, miserably enough, that he had been foolish to start trouble. He might better have let well enough alone. The boy’s stubbornness had played him false more than once in the past; this time it was to do him a good turn. A less stubborn person would have backed down, under the weight of these misgivings; would have canceled the orders given Radabaugh, and let matters slide along as they had slid in the past. But Wint, though he dreaded the ridicule that would follow what he had done, felt himself committed. They would laugh! Well, let them laugh! His jaw set; he swore to go on at any cost. On this determination, he slept at last. In spite of his wakefulness, Wint was first downstairs in the morning. Hetty, sweeping out the sitting room, encountered him. He had not seen her the day before, except when his father and mother were about. Then she had avoided his eye. Now she looked at him sullenly, and said: “Much obliged for getting me to bed, Wint.” “That’s all right, Hetty. I remember you did as much for me.”