The sheriff’s pucker of his black brows and his slow nod might have meant anything. Really he was saying to himself (Amos was a dogged fellow): “Don’t care; I’m going to try. I am sure ma would want me to. I ain’t a very hefty missionary, but if there is such a thing as clubbing a man half-way decent, and I think there is, I’ll get him that way. Poor old lady, she looked so unhappy!” During the trial, Paisley was too excited and dejected to write to his mother. But the day after he received his sentence the sheriff found him finishing a large sheet of foolscap. It contained a detailed and vivid description of the reasons why he had left a mythical grocery firm, and described with considerable humor the mythical boarding-house where he was waiting for something to turn up. It was very well done, and he expected a smile from the sheriff. The red mottled his pale cheeks when Wickliff, with his blackest frown, tore the letter into pieces, which he stuffed into his pocket. [Illustration: “TORE THE LETTER INTO PIECES”] “You take a damned ungentlemanly advantage of your position,” fumed Paisley. “I shall take more advantage of it if you give me any sass,” returned Wickliff, calmly. “Now set down and listen.” Paisley, after one helpless glare, did sit down. “I believe you fairly revel in lying. I don’t. That’s where we differ. I think lies are always liable to come home to roost, and I like to have the flock as small as possible. Now you write that you are here, and you’re helping _me_. You ain’t getting much wages, but they will be enough to keep you—these hard times any job is better than none. And you can add that you don’t want any money from her. Your other letter sorter squints like you did. You can say you are boarding with a very nice lady—that’s Mrs. Raker—everything very clean, and the table plain but abundant. Address you in care of Sheriff Amos T. Wickliff. How’s that?” Paisley’s anger had ebbed away. Either from policy or some other motive he was laughing now. “It’s not nearly so interesting in a literary point of view, you know,” said he, “but I guess it will be easier not to have so many things to remember. And you’re right; I didn’t mean to hint for money, but it did look like it.” “He did mean to hint,” thought the sheriff, “but he’s got some sense.” The letter finally submitted was a masterpiece in its way. This time the sheriff smiled, though grimly. He also gave Paisley a cigar. Regularly the letters to Mrs. Smith were submitted to Wickliff. Raker never thought of reading them. The replies came with a pathetic promptness. “That’s from your ma,” said Wickliff, when the first letter came—Paisley was at the jail ledgers in the sheriff’s room, as it happened, directly beneath the portraits—“you better read it first.”