Mr. Bones was reprimanded, but he remained upon what is facetiously known as “the force.”  The borough cannot afford to dispense with the services of such an original genius as he.

Our sheriff is a man of rather higher intelligence, but he also has a singular capacity for perpetrating dreadful blunders.  Over in the town of Nockamixon one of the churches last year called a clergyman named Rev. Joseph Striker.  In the same place, by a most unfortunate coincidence, resides also a prize-fighter named Joseph Striker, and rumors were afloat a few weeks ago that the latter Joseph was about to engage in a contest with a Jersey pugilist for the championship.  Our sheriff considered it his duty to warn Joseph against the proposed infraction of the laws, and so he determined to call upon the professor of the art of self-defence.  Unhappily, in inquiring the way to the pugilist’s house, somebody misunderstood the sheriff, and sent him to the residence of the Rev. Joseph Striker, of whom he had never heard.  When Mr. Striker entered the room in answer to the summons, the sheriff said to him familiarly,

“Hello, Joe!  How are you?”

Mr. Striker was amazed at this address, but he politely said,

“Good-morning.”

“Joe,” said the sheriff, throwing his leg lazily over the arm of the chair, “I came round here to see you about that mill with Harry Dingus that they’re all talking about.  I want you to understand that it can’t come off anywheres around here.  You know well enough it’s against the law, and I ain’t a-going to have it.”

“Mill!  Mill, sir?  What on earth do you mean?” asked Mr. Striker, in astonishment.  “I do not own any mill, sir.  Against the law!  I do not understand you, sir.”

“Now, see here, Joe,” said the sheriff, biting off a piece of tobacco and looking very wise, “that won’t go down with me.  It’s pretty thin, you know.  I know well enough that you’ve put up a thousand dollars on that little affair, and that you’ve got the whole thing fixed, with Bill Martin for referee.  I know you’re going down to Pea Patch Island to have it out, and I’m not going to allow it.  I’ll arrest you as sure as a gun if you try it on, now mind me!”

“Really, sir,” said Mr. Striker, “there must be some mistake about—­”

“Oh no, there isn’t; your name’s Joe Striker, isn’t it?” asked the sheriff.

“My name is Joseph Striker, certainly.”

“I knew it,” said the sheriff, spitting on the carpet; “and you see I’ve got this thing dead to rights.  It sha’n’t come off; and I’m doing you a favor in blocking the game, because Harry’d curl you all up any way if I let you meet him.  I know he’s the best man, and you’d just lose your money and get all bunged up besides; so you take my advice now, and quit.  You’ll be sorry if you don’t.”

“I do not know what you are referring to,” said Mr. Striker.  “Your remarks are incomprehensible to me, but your tone is very offensive; and if you have any business with me, I’d thank you to state it at once.”