“Rather, I should say. Forgery, swindling, pocket-picking, all sorts. I hardly know what’s on the list. Pretty much everything. Spoil him for a witness.” “Hold on a bit, then,” said the Judge; “I’ll turn him right over to you.” “All right,” replied the District Attorney. “I’m always glad to oblige a man like you. He’s a bad one. Good-day.” “Mr. Ashbel Norton need have no fears about his family name,” muttered the Judge; “but how about all the Montagues? Their name’s going to the penitentiary by a large majority.” There seemed no help for it, and it was not any fault of Judge Danvers, either. That evening he had another long talk with Dr. Manning, which was ended with: “Of course, he’ll come right here. Send him down to my office with as little delay as possible. I must have a talk with him before anybody else knows that I’ve found him.” Perhaps, after all, there was small need of so many precautions, but the old lawyer could hardly have done his work in any other way if he had tried. As for Bar Vernon, it had seemed to him that morning as if there never could have been so slow a stage-coach anywhere else in all the world, and he caught himself glancing enviously at the telegraph wires. He had secured a perch beside the driver on the box, and at last he asked him: “What’s the matter with your horses to-day? They seem to go like snails.” “Snails, is it?” angrily exclaimed the driver. “S’pose you ask ’em? I reckon I know how fast hosses ort to be druv.” “Hullo, you off nag,” suddenly inquired Bar, as the driver had suggested, “is that the best you can do?” “Best I can do,” returned the off horse, with a toss of his head. “Golly!” exclaimed the driver. “What’s the matter?” again demanded Bar. “Low feed,” replied the animal, or at least so it seemed to the driver, and again he exclaimed: “Golly!” and added a long whistle of utter astonishment. “What do they give you?” asked Bar. “Shingle nails and lager beer,” dolefully returned the now clearly harassed animal. “Don’t bother me!” “Think of it!” exclaimed Bar. “No wonder he can’t travel fast on such feed as that. I can see ’em sticking through him, now. Poor fellow.” “Poor fellow, yourself,” stammered the driver. “Look a-here, young man, who be you?” “Who am I?” replied Bar. “Why, I’m half horse, myself, on my aunt’s side, and her right hand side at that. You don’t think they’d tell me any lies, do you?” “They did, though,” replied the driver, who had edged away as far as the seat would let him. Men of his class are not likely to be lacking in “cuteness,” however, and it was not long before the truth began to dawn on him. “Sold,” he said, musingly. “Jeff Rogers sold by a runaway schoolboy. Sold on hoss talk, too. Who’d ha’ thought of sech a thing? But then, how well he does it! Beats the perfessionals all holler.”