“It’s the truth,” asserted Bart.  “I never knew the cannon was loaded with a ball.”

“Do you know who loaded it?”

Bart was silent.

“You won’t tell?  We’ll see if a jury can’t make you, then!” fumed the colonel.  “Aha! it’s serious now, is it?  Not so much fun breaking up my home and breaking up my speech at the grove to-day, hey?”

Bart saw very plainly that what rankled most with his volcanic visitor was the blow to his pride he had suffered that afternoon at the grove.

“You put me in a nice fix, didn’t you?” cried the colonel—­“laughing stock of the community!  Young man, you’re on the downward road, fast.  You’re all of a brood.  Your mother—­”

Bart started forward with a dangerous sparkle in his eye.

“Colonel Harrington,” he said decisively, “my mother has nothing to do with this affair.”

“She has!” vociferated the magnate, “or rather, her teachings.  You’re full of infernal pride and presumption, the whole kit of you!”

“We have our rights.”

“I’m a stockholder in the B. & M., and I fancy my influence will reach the express service.  You’ll stay in your present job just long enough for me to advise your employers of your true character.”

Bart was dismayed—­that threat touched him to the quick.  He had felt very glad that Mr. Leslie had not met the irate colonel.  The mean-spirited magnate noted instantly the effect of his threat.

“You’ll insult and defy me, will you?” he cried, with a gloating chuckle.  “Very well—­you take your medicine, that’s all.”

Bart could hardly control his voice, but he said simply: 

“Colonel Harrington, my father has been blinded at his post of duty.  I am the sole support of the family.  I hope you will pause and consider before you plunge us into new trouble and distress that we do not deserve.  I have never had the remotest thought of injuring you or your property in any way.  I am willing to make all the amends I am able for the accidental damage to your property, but I can’t and won’t cringe to your injustice, nor grovel at your feet.”

“Eighty-five dollars—­one, the name of the person who loaded that cannon—­two, C.O.D. before ten o’clock to-morrow morning, or I’ll sweep you off the map!” shouted the colonel.

He marched off, puffing up as his vain senses were tickled with the fancy that he was a born orator, and had just given utterance to some profoundly apt and clever sentiments.  Bart stared after him in sheer dismay.

“It’s a bad outlook,” he murmured, “but—­I have tried to do my duty.  I would like to have money and influence, but would rather be plain Bart Stirling than that man.  He is coming back.”

Bart thought this, for, just about to round the end of a dead freight and cross to the public street, his late visitor turned abruptly.

He did not, however, retrace his steps.  Instead, he came to the strangest rigid pose Bart had ever seen a human being assume.