"Late! Late to town!" he stormed. "And what for? That pesky Lizy Ann Scribbens had the owdacity to come to my _front_ door this very mornin'--a beggin'. My _front_ door! An' her just been cooped up with that diseased rat of a husban', Dink, an' small-pox microbes a-crawlin' all over her! Didn't I pack her off? I swear, gentlemen, I got my shotgun before she would leave! Paupers oughter live in the poorhouse an' not purten' to be decent. Dink won't admit he's a pauper, but he lives by stealin', what's worse. That's why I'm late, an' if I don't ketch it I don't know why!" The paper rustled against the wall. "I should think, Mr. Hoonover, that you should apprehend no danger of contagion, as you had no personal contact with your caller. Of course that is a layman's view only, but I would not give it another thought." A pistol shot, startlingly near and distinct, punctuated the carefully uttered speech of Colonel Whitley. The group leaped up as one man--save the one who had last spoken. Colonel Whitley was in a comfortable position, and his paper was only half read. The shot sounded from Main street, and Judge Colver, as fearless as he was big, started in a lumbering trot across the yard to ascertain the cause of the disturbance. But almost immediately three men appeared around the corner of the courthouse. One was a deputy sheriff, another was a blacksmith, and between them, struggling violently to free himself, was a low, poorly dressed, unkempt person. "What's up? What's Hank done?" queried the judge. "Shot Dick Goodloe!" answered the deputy, quickly, he and the smith hurrying their man forward as rapidly as possible. On the other side of the yard was a little gate, and it was for this they were heading, it being the nearest approach to the jail. "Keep back the crowd, Joe, till we get Hank in!" called the deputy, and they pushed on. The crowd as yet, however, was entirely harmless, and was centered about some indistinguishable object in the middle of the street. The live assassin was far less interesting than the fallen officer, for Dick Goodloe was the town marshal; an honest, sober, efficient fellow whom everyone admired for his adherence to duty. Not three minutes had passed since the shot split the warm, still air. Before, the town had seemed only half alive; a few people on the street, a few men in the store doors, a few loitering negroes. Now a seething mass of humanity of all ages was congregated in front of the post-office, almost from curb to curb, and those who had first reached the marshal were so pushed upon and hampered that they could do nothing. John was in his office when the unmistakable sound came spitefully through his window, and caused him to seize his hat and run down stairs. The mishap had occurred at the other end of the square, and when he reached the scene it was to find his way blocked by a human wall.