“I guess we’ll have to.  We were pretty well cleaned out of some of our provisions last night.  We shall have to replenish our food supply, and Fenton is the only real town along our route to-day.  The rest are small farming villages.”

“But we’ll attract a lot of attention,” declared Holmes.

“You won’t,” laughed Darry.  “You didn’t go to town with us last night, and consequently you’re not known there.”

“I’d rather not go through the town myself,” Dick explained, “but it seems to me that as long as we must purchase supplies we ought to make a stop in the town that’s likely to have the best stores.”

Fenton’s principal street had rather a sleepy look this hot August morning.  There were but few people abroad as Dick & Co. turned into the main thoroughfare.

At Miller’s place there was not a sign of life.  “I’ll wager that brute is applying raw beef to his eyes this morning,” muttered Tom, somewhat vindictively.

Prescott’s watchful glance soon discovered a provision store that looked more than usually promising.  At a word from him Tom reined in the horse, while Prescott and Darrin went inside to make purchases.

When they came out they found Farmer Hartshorn and another man talking with Tom Reade.

“You young men of Gridley don’t look any the worse, this morning, for the excitement you had last night,” said Mr. Hartshorn, after a cordial greeting.  “Reade tells me that you left the milk-pail at my house as you came along.”

“Yes, sir,” Dick nodded.  “And with it, we left our very best thanks for the fine treat that milk proved to be to us.”

“Prescott, shake hands with Mr. Stark.  He’s our leading lawyer in this little place.”

“I’ve heard a good deal about you this morning,” said the lawyer, as he shook hands.

Mr. Stark was a tall, thin man, of perhaps forty-five years of age.  Warm as was the day he was attired wholly in black, a bit rusty, and wore a high silk hat that was beginning to show signs of age.  He belonged to a type of rural lawyer that is now passing.

“I think we’ve heard of you, too,” smiled Prescott innocently.

“Have you?” asked the lawyer, looking somewhat astonished.

“Yes,” Dick went on.  “I think it must have been your letter that Mr. Reuben Hinman showed us one day.  It was in regard to a bill he had given you to collect.  Mr. Hinman is in the hospital and must need quite a bit of money just at present so I beg to express the hope that you have been able to collect the other half of the debt—–­the half that belongs to him.”

Lawyer Stark reddened a good deal, despite his sallow skin.

“Why, what about that other half?  What’s the story?” questioned Mr. Hartshorn, his eyes, twinkling as though he scented something amusing.

“Oh—–­er—–­just a matter of business between a client and myself,” the lawyer explained, in some confusion.