A month had passed since Allan Dorris was found floating over the mounds in Hedgepath graveyard, and the waters having gone down in the bottoms, the people were busy in rescuing their homes from the ooze and black mud beneath which they were buried. There had been so much destruction in the bottoms, and so much loss of trade in the town, that the people were all mourners like Annie Dorris and Silas Davy, and it did not seem probable that any of them would ever be cheerful again. Silas Davy was the only person in the town, save Annie Dorris, who knew the secret of the murder, and he kept it to himself, believing that Tug was on the trail of the culprit, and that nothing could be gained by making the people aware of the mysterious man and his mysterious visits. He was sure that Tug would return finally, when, if he saw fit, he might tell the people what he knew; otherwise they might continue their conjectures, which generally implicated Tug. From the day of the murder he had not been seen in the town, and while it was not openly charged that he had fired the fatal shot, a great many talked mysteriously of his disappearance, and believed that he had something to do with it, for about this time it became known that he had frequently been seen around The Locks in the middle of the night, carrying a gun. Silas had gone down to the old house by the river, to see if the bed gave any signs of having been occupied, as there was a possibility that Tug had returned, and was ashamed to make his presence known, not having accomplished his purpose. But there was no sign. The dust upon everything was proof enough that the owner was still away, and Silas was preparing to blow out the light, and return to the hotel, when his friend came walking in at the door; ragged, dirty, and footsore, and a picture of poverty and woe, but there could be no doubt that it was Tug, for he carried in his right hand the old musket that had so long been his constant companion. His clothes hung in shreds about him, and bare skin appeared at his elbows and knees; his tall hat was so crumpled that it looked like a short hat, and his hair and whiskers were long and unkempt. There were bits of hay and twigs clinging to his clothing, and Silas was sure that he had been sleeping out at night, and creeping through the brush during the day. "Tug, my old friend!" Silas said, in a voice trembling with excitement and pleasure. "God bless me; how glad I am to see you!" Tug sat down wearily in a chair, and laid the gun down at his feet. He was certainly very tired, and very hungry, and very weak, and Silas thought how fortunate it was he had brought a lunch with him, although he had only hoped that Tug would eat it. This he placed before his friend, who pulled his chair up to the table at sight of the sandwiches, and said in a hoarse voice,--