"Hammond locked me out, and when I kicked his front door in he opened on me with a shotgun," explained Jim. Mark laughed and shook hands. "I knew he'd bust out at ye pretty soon," he said. "It was just that or lose his reputation for righteousness; an' I reckon he figgered it out how his reputation was worth a few more dollars to 'im, in the long run." After breakfast Jim and Mark drove in to Millbrook with a pair of horses and a heavy wagon. They drew rein in front of the Hammond house. "Look there, will ye!" exclaimed Mark, who had heard all the details of the encounter between Jim and the storekeeper. Jim looked and saw a patch of new flooring on the veranda, directly in front of the door. "Quick work," he replied. "He's quick as a mink an' sly as a fox an' heartless as a weasel, is that skunk Amos Hammond," returned Mark. The store stood on the other side of the road, directly opposite the dwelling. Several teams stood hitched before it. Mark and Jim descended from the wagon, crossed the road and entered the store. Three or four customers were there, and Amos Hammond stood behind a counter and talked confidentially across it to a tall countryman with a face full of uncontrolled whiskers. Amos glanced at the newcomers from a corner of his near eye, but went on with his conversation. Jim went straight up to the bewhiskered man's elbow and addressed Hammond. "I've come for my baggage," he said. The tall fellow looked sideways at him, but Amos didn't give him a glance or pause in his talk. "I've come for my baggage," repeated Jim. "For my rifle, my trunks full of clothes, my boots, my fishing-rods, my books, and my dispatch-box containing private papers and one hundred and twelve dollars in Canadian currency. I'll let the wages you owe me go." "Young feller, that's sure sayin' a mouthful," remarked the hairy stranger, eyeing Jim with interest. "What's all this about yer boots an' yer baggage, anyhow?" "He's a liar!" exclaimed Hammond, suddenly losing his pose. "Ain't I just told ye all about it, Mr. Hart? About his one trunk, an' his ungodly nighthawkin' up to Piper's Glen an' his bustin' into my house at two o'clock this mornin', drunk as a soldier, an' how I had to chase 'im away with a gun loaded with salt? If ye don't believe me, come along over an' look at his baggage yerself." "Sure, let's go," agreed the whiskery one. "It's the cleanest job ye've put me to yet, Hammond, this lookin' at a trunk. Cleaner an' more to my taste nor foreclosin' mortgages an' evictin' widows." He turned and saw Mark Ducat and extended a hairy hand. "How do, Mark," he said. "How do, Sheriff," returned Mark, shaking his hand. "Speakin' of widows," continued Hart, sagging an elbow to the counter and crossing his long legs, "have ye seen old Widow Wilson of Kingswood Settlement since the deacon here sicked the law on to her an' run her off her little old farm?"