Jim: The Story of a Backwoods Police Dog. Roberts Charles G. D.

frothing at the mouth. “That’s the man as done it, an’ we’re agoin’ to string ’im up fer it right now, for fear he might git off some way atween the jedges an’ the lawyers. You keep out of it now, Tug.”

      About half the crowd surged forward with Hawker in front. Up came Blackstock’s gun.

      “Ye know me, boys,” said he. “Keep back.”

      They kept back. They all fell back, indeed, some paces, except Hawker, who held his ground, half crouching, his lips distorted in a snarl of rage.

      “Aw now, quit it, Sam,” urged one of his followers. “’Tain’t worth it. An’ Tug’s right, anyways. The law’s good enough, with Tug to the back of it.” And putting forth a long arm he dragged Hawker back into the crowd.

      “Put away yer gun, Tug,” expostulated another. “Seein’s ye feel that way about it, we won’t interfere.”

      Blackstock stuck the revolver back into his belt with a grin.

      “Glad ye’ve come back to yer senses, boys,” said he, perceiving that the crisis was over. “But keep an eye on Hawker for a bit yet. Seems to ’ave gone clean off his head.”

      “Don’t fret, Tug. We’ll look after him,” agreed several of his comrades from the mill, laying firmly persuasive hands upon the excited man, who cursed them for cowards till they began to chaff him roughly.

      “What’s makin’ you so sore, Sam?” demanded one. “Did the book agent try to make up to Sis Hopkins?”

      “No, it’s Tug that Sis is making eyes at now,” suggested another. “That’s what’s puttin’ Sam so off his nut.”

      “Leave the lady’s name out of it, boys,” interrupted Blackstock, in a tone that carried conviction.

      “Quit that jaw now, Sam,” interposed another, changing the subject, “an’ tell us what ye’ve done with that fancy belt o’ yourn ’at ye’re so proud of. We hain’t never seen ye without it afore.”

      “That’s so,” chimed in the constable. “That accounts for his foolishness. Sam ain’t himself without that fancy belt.”

      Hawker stopped his cursing and pulled himself together with an effort, as if only now realizing that his followers had gone over completely to the side of the law and Tug Blackstock.

      “Busted the buckle,” he explained quickly. “Mend it when I git time.”

      “Now, boys,” said Blackstock presently, “we’ll git right back along to where poor Jake’s still layin’, and there we’ll ask this here stranger what he knows about it. It’s there, if anywheres, where we’re most likely to git some light on the subject. I’ve sent over to the Ridge fer the coroner, an’ poor Jake can’t be moved till he comes.”

      The book agent, his confidence apparently restored by the attitude of Blackstock, now let loose a torrent of eloquence to explain how glad he would be to tell all he knew, and how sorry he was that he knew nothing, having merely had a brief conversation with poor Mr. Sanderson on the morning of the previous day.

      “Ye’ll hev lots o’ time to tell us all that when we’re askin’ ye,” answered Blackstock. “Now, take my advice an’ keep yer mouth shet.”

      As Blackstock was speaking, Jim slipped in alongside the prisoner and rubbed against him with a friendly wag of the tail as if to say:

      “Sorry to see you in such a hole, old chap.”

      Some of the men laughed, and one who was more or less a friend of Hawker’s, remarked sarcastically:

      “Jim don’t seem quite so discriminatin’ as usual, Tug.”

      “Oh, I don’t know,” replied the Deputy drily, noting the dog’s attitude with evident interest. “Time will show. Ye must remember a man ain’t necessarily a murderer jest because he wears black side-lights an’ tries to sell ye a book that ain’t no good.”