It is a pathetic circumstance in human affairs that the fact of how little one’s personal difficulties and anxieties and turmoils of mind count to one’s friends can only be definitely ascertained by the experiment made in the thick of these troubles. With a sudden return of his wonted perspicacity, Sims said, “That thar man oughter be gin notice ter leave. I call on ye all--ye all live round ’bout the Cove--ter git him out’n it.” There was a half-articulate grumble of protest and surprise. “It’s yer business ter make him go, ef yer don’t want him in yer house,” said Peter Knowles, looking loweringly at Sims. “I ain’t got nuthin’ agin him,” declared Sims excitedly, holding both empty palms upward. “I can’t say, ‘Git out; ye talk in yer sleep, an’ ye don’t talk ter suit me!’ _But_,” fixing the logic upon them with weighty emphasis and a significant pause, “you-uns all b’lieve ez he air in league with Satan, an’ his jinks air deviltries an’ sech. An’ so be, ye _ought_ ter make him take hisself an’ his conjurin’s off from hyar ’fore he witches the craps, or spirits away the lime, or tricks the mill, or--He ought ter be gin hours ter cl’ar out.” Peter Knowles roused himself to argument. He had developed a vivid curiosity concerning the juggler. The suggestion of the devil’s agency was a far cry to his fears,--be it remembered he had not seen the bayonet swallowed!--and he had phenomenal talents for contrariety, and graced the opposition with great persistence and powers of contradiction. “Bein’ ez ye hev reason ter suspect that man o’ murder or sech, we-uns ain’t got the _right_ ter give him hours ter leave. Ye ain’t got the _right_ ter turn him out’n yer house ter escape from the off’cers o’ the law.” The crowd, always on the alert for a sensation, pricked up their willing ears. “Naw, ye ain’t,” more than one asseverated. “’Twould jes’ be holpin’ him on his run from jestice,” declared Beck. “Further he gits, further the sher’ff’ll hev ter foller, an’ mo’ chance o’ losin’ him.” “They be on his track now, I reckon,” said old Josiah Cobbs dolorously. “It’s the jewty o’ we-uns in the Cove,” resumed Peter Knowles, “ter keep a stric’ watch on him an’ see ter it he don’t git away ’fore the sher’ff tracks him hyar.”