“I hoped you’d know how to take a joke, son!” said the little lamplighter in a hurt tone.

“Were you joking, sure enough?” asked Custer doubtingly.

“Is it likely I could have been in earnest?” demanded Shrimplin, hitching up his chin with an air of disdain.  “What’s my record right here in Mount Hope?  Was it Andy Gilmore or Colonel Harbison that found old man McBride when he was murdered in his store?” And the little lamplighter’s tone grew more and more indignant as he proceeded.  “Maybe you think it was your disgustin’ and dirty Uncle Joe? I seem to remember it was Bill Shrimplin, or do I just dream I was there—­but I ain’t been called a liar, not by no living man—­” and he twirled an end of his drooping flaxen mustache between thumb and forefinger.  “Facts is facts,” he finished.

“Everybody knows you found old Mr. McBride—­” said Custer rather eagerly.

“I’m expecting to hear it hinted I didn’t!” replied Mr. Shrimplin darkly.  “I’m expecting to hear it stated by some natural-born liar that I set in my cart and bellered for help!”

“But you didn’t, and nobody says you did,” insisted the boy.

“Well, I’m glad you don’t have to take my word for it,” said Shrimplin.  “I’m glad them facts is a matter of official record up to the court-house.  I don’t know, though, that I care so blame much about being held up as a public character; if I hadn’t a reputation out of the common, maybe I wouldn’t be misjudged when I stand back to give some one else a chance!”

He laughed with large scorn of the world’s littleness.

The epic of William Shrimplin was taking to itself its old high noble strain, and Custer was aware of a sneaking sense of shame that he could have doubted even for an instant; then swiftly the happy consciousness stole in on him that he had been weighed in the balance by this specialist in human courage and had not been found wanting.  And his heart waxed large in his thin little body.

They were jogging along Mount Hope’s deserted streets when Marshall Langham roused from his stupor.

“Where are you taking me?” he demanded of the boy.

“Home, Mr. Langham—­we’re almost there now,” responded Custer.

“Take me to my father’s,” said Marshall with an effort, and his head fell over on Custer’s small shoulder.

He did not speak again until Bill came to a stand before Judge Langham’s gate.

“Are we there?” he asked of the boy.

“Yes—­”

“Don’t you think we’d better get help?” said Shrimplin.

And Marshall seeming to acquiesce in this, the little lamplighter entered the yard and going to the front door rang the bell.  A minute passed, and growing impatient he rang again.  There succeeded another interval of waiting in which Shrimplin cocked his head on one side to catch the sound of possible footsteps in the hall.

“He says try the knob,” called Custer from the cart.