He had not said two words when I knew him for Old Man Fewkes, whom I had last seen back on the road west of Dyersville, on his way to “Negosha.”  Where was Ma Fewkes, and where were Celebrate Fourth and Surajah Dowlah?  And where, most emphatically, where was Rowena?  I stepped forward at McGill’s side.  Surely, I thought, they were not going to tar and feather these harmless, good-for-nothing waifs of the frontier; and even as I thought it, I saw the glimmering of the fire they were kindling under the tar-kettle.

“We want you, you infernal claim-jumper!” said McGill.  “We’ll show you that you can’t steal the land from us hard-working settlers, you set of sneaks!  Take off your clothes, and we’ll give you a coat that will make you look more like buzzards than you do now.”

“There’s some of ’em runnin’ away!” yelled one of the crowd.  “Catch ’em!”

There was a flight through the grass from the back of the shanty, a rush of pursuit, some feeble yells jerked into bits by rough handling; and presently, Celebrate and Surajah were dragged into the circle of light, just as poor Ma Fewkes, with her shoulder-blades drawn almost together came forward and tried to tear from her poor old husband’s arm the hand of an old neighbor of mine whose name I won’t mention even at this late day.  I will not turn state’s evidence notwithstanding the Statute of Limitations has run, as N.V.  Creede advises me, against any one but Dick McGill—­and the reason for my exposing him is merely tit for tat.  Ma Fewkes could not unclasp the hands; but she produced an effect just the same.

“Say,” said a man who had all the time sat in one of the wagons, holding the horses.  “You’d better leave out the stripping, boys!”

They began dragging the boys and the old man toward the tar-kettle, and McGill, with his hat drawn down over his eyes, went to the slimy mass and dipped into it a wooden paddle with which they had been stirring it.  Taking as much on it as it would carry, he made as if to smear it over the old man’s head and beard.  I could not stand this—­the poor harmless old coot!—­and I ran up and struck McGill’s arm.

“What in hell,” he yelled, for some of the tar went on him, “do you mean!”

“Don’t tar and feather ’em,” I begged.  “I know these folks.  They are a poor wandering family, without money enough to buy land away from any one.”

“We jist thought we’d kind o’ settle down,” said Old Man Fewkes whimperingly; “and I’ve got the money promised me to buy this land.  So it’s all right and straight!”

The silly old leatherhead didn’t know he was doing anything against public sentiment; and told the very thing that made a case against him.  I have found out since who the man was that promised him the money and was going to take the land; but that was just one circumstance in the land craze, and the man himself was wounded at Fort Donelson, and died in hospital—­so I won’t tell his name.  The point is, that the old man had turned the jury against me just as I had finished my plea.