“We are citizens of this township,” he said, “and we have a right in this meeting.” “Go wan!” was the answer. “We won’t have any foreigners here.” “We are as much Americans as you are!” responded Eric, hotly. “Be cool,” cautioned the shoemaker, in his native tongue. “I tell you, Jim O’Rourke,” continued Eric, more steadily, “there’s no need of our quarrelling this way, and if you’d let us explain we’d show you why we should all be friends—” “Friends! Let me give you a friendly hint. You get out of here double-quick.” By nature the Scandinavian is peaceable. He hates fighting as much as he loves his home; and yet, for being slow to wrath, he is the more terrible when roused. Eric took one step forward and drove up O’Rourke’s arm with a stinging blow that sent him spinning into the room. Then he and his father entered. O’Rourke, recovering himself, rushed upon Eric and dealt him a terrific blow in the breast. The two men were just closing in a desperate encounter when Caxton, the chairman, rose, ordering silence and preparing to enforce his decree with a stout oak stake. “What’s the trouble here?” he demanded, when quiet had been restored. “We are citizens of this township,” said Eric, panting, “and we have a right to attend this meeting. This man tried to shut us out.” Caxton paused a moment. “Put out the Norsks!” roared a voice. “No,” said Caxton. “They have a right to be here and to be heard on the subject of their taxes.” “Thank you!” said Eric, eagerly. “I want to explain—” “You will be given a chance in due time,” was the answer, given so coldly that it indicated the chairman’s position against them beyond a doubt. There were many whispered threats, but Eric and his father firmly stood their ground. The business of the board of review is to hear the complaints of those who think they have been unfairly taxed. Apparently there were to be few complaints at this meeting. An old man who spoke with the unmistakable inflection of the Irishman commended the assessment and praised the assessor. He thought every one in the township had been satisfied. He was pleased to know that this was so. As he sat down, a small, loosely jointed man, with fiery red hair, rose from his chair. He wore a diamond shirt-stud which, if genuine, would have purchased every stitch of personal apparel in the room. He drawled pleasantly in his talk. Every one knew him. His name was William P. Ketchum, or more familiarly, Billy Ketchum. Eric’s eyes fastened hard upon him and watched him as a catamount might watch a squirrel, and with much the same motive.