Meeting that strange, compelling gaze the latter:  stared back at him, his face an ugly, expressionless mask.  He shuffled with his feet.  “Why, yes!” he said finally, “I did heer a bunch o’ fellers come in.  They was a-talkin’ all excited-like ‘bout a fight, or sumphin’.  They was a-hollerin’, ‘Beat it, Larry! beat it!’ t’ somewun, an’ I heered some feller say:  ‘All right! give us my ——­ saddle!’ an’ then it sounded like as if a horse was bein’ taken out.  I didn’t heer no more after that—­went t’ sleep.  I ‘member comin’ down ‘bout th’ middle o’ th’ night t’ git a drink at th’ trough.  This feller come in then,”—­he indicated Lee.  “He hollered sumphin’ an’ started in t’ chase me . . . so I beat it up inta th’ loft agin’.”  He shivered. “’T’was cold up ther—­I well-nigh froze,” he whined.

The sergeant exhausted his no mean powers of exhortation.  It was all in vain.  The hobo protested that he had neither seen nor heard anyone else taking out, or bringing in, a horse during the night.

Slavin finally ceased his efforts and glowered at the man in silent impotence.  “How come yez tu get th’ face av yez bashed up so?” he demanded.

“Fell thru’ one o’ th’ feed-holes up in th’ loft,” was the sulky response.

“Fwhat name du ye thravel undher?”

“Dick Drinkwater.”

“Eh?” the sergeant glanced critically at the red, bulbous nose.  “Fwhat’s in a name?” he murmured.  “Eyah! fwhat’s in a name?”

Glibly the tramp commenced an impassioned harangue, dwelling upon the hardness of life in general, snuffling and whining after the manner of his kind.  How could a crippled-up man like him obtain work?  He thrust out a grimy right hand—­minus two fingers.  He had been a sawyer, he averred.

Slavin sniffed suspiciously.  “Ye shtink av whiskey, fella!” he said sharply.  “That nose, yeh name, an’ a hard-luck spiel du not go well together.  Fwhere did yu’ get yu’re dhrink?”

The hobo was silent.  “Come across,” said Slavin sternly, “fwhere did ye get ut?”

“I had a bottle with me when I come off th’ train,” said the other, “ther was a drop left in an’ I had it just now.”

In the light of after events, well did Slavin and Yorke recall the furtive appealing glance the hobo threw at Gully; well did they also remember certain of Kilbride’s words:  “There’ll be quite a lot of things crop up in our minds that we’ll be wondering we never thought of before.”

The justice cleared his throat.  “Sergeant” came his guttural, booming bass, “suppose!—­suppose!” he reiterated suavely “on this occasion we—­er—­temper justice with mercy—­ha! ha!” His deep hollow laugh jarred on their nerves most unpleasantly.  “I need a man at my place just now,” he went on, “to buck wood and do a little odd choring around.  Times are rather hard just now, as this poor fellow says.  If you insist—­er—­why, of course I’ve no other option but to send him down . . . you understand?  I would not presume to dictate to you your duty.  On the other hand . . . if you are not specially anxious to press a charge of vagrancy against this man I—­er—­am willing to give him a chance to obtain this work—­that he insists he is so anxious to find.”