“Yes, sir,” said the lover of law, “we are just that, and good sound Democrats.”

Grey, curious and mildly interested, determined to be reassured in regard to this black barber’s former status.  He walked slowly by Josiah’s shop followed at a distance by Peter.  The barber was shaving Mr. Pole, and intent on his task.  Grey caught sight of the black’s face.  One look was enough—­it was familiar—­unmistakable.  In place of going in to be shaved he turned away and quickened his steps.  Peter grinned and went home.  “The darn nigger horse-thief,” murmured Grey.  “I’ll write to Woodburn.”  Then he concluded that first it would be well without committing himself to know more surely how far this Democratic community would go in support of the fugitive-slave law.  He applauded his cautiousness.

A moment later Pole, well shaven, overtook him.  Grey stopped him, chatted as they went on, and at last asked if there was in Westways a good Democratic lawyer.  Pole was confident that Mr. Swallow would be all that he could desire, and pointed out his house.

Meanwhile Peter Lamb began to suspect that there was mischief brewing for the man who had brought down on him the anger of Mark Rivers, and like enough worse things as soon as Penhallow came home.

As Pole turned into his shop-door, Mr. Grey went westward in deep thought.  He was sure of the barber’s identity.  If Josiah had been his own property, he would with no hesitation have taken the steps needful to reclaim the fugitive, but it was Mr. Woodburn who had lost Josiah’s years of service and it was desirable not hastily to commit his friend.  He knew with what trouble the fugitive-slave law had been obeyed or not obeyed at the North.  He was not aware that men who cared little about slavery were indignant at a law which set aside every safeguard with which the growth of civilization had surrounded the trial of even the worst criminal.  As he considered the situation, he walked more and more slowly until he paused in front of Swallow’s house.  Every one had assured him that since General Jackson’s time the town and county had changelessly voted the good old Democratic ticket.  Here at least the rights of property would be respected, and there would be no lawless city mobs to make the restoration of a slave difficult.  The brick house and ill-kept garden before which he paused looked unattractive.  Beside the house a one-storey wooden office bore the name “Henry W. Swallow, Attorney-at-law.”  There was neither bell nor knocker.  Mr. Grey rapped on the office door with his cane, and after waiting a moment without hearing any one, he entered a front room and looked about him.