His appeal was suddenly interrupted.  Mr. Gammon, peering about his premises for fresh evidences of witchcraft accomplished during his absence, bellowed frantic request to “Come, see!” He was behind the barn, and they hastened thither.

“My Gawd, gents, they’ve witched the ca’f!” Their eyes followed the direction of his quivering finger.

A calf was placidly surveying them from among the branches of a “Sopsy-vine” apple-tree, munching an apple that he had been able to reach.  Whatever agency had boosted him there had left him wedged into the crotch of the limbs so that he could not move, though he appeared to be comfortable.

“It jest takes all the buckram out of me—­them sights do,” wailed Mr. Gammon.  “I can’t climb up there and do it.  One of you will have to.”  He pulled out a big jackknife, opened it with his yellow teeth, and extended it.

“Have to do what?” demanded Hiram.

“Cut off his ears and tail.  That’s the only way to get him out from under the charm.”

But Hiram, squinting up to assure himself that the calf was comfortable, pushed Mr. Gammon back and made him sit down on a pile of bean-poles.

“Better put your hat between your knees,” he suggested, noting the way Mr. Gammon’s thin knees were jigging.  “You might knock a sliver off the bones, rappin’ them together that way.”

He lighted one of his long cigars, his shrewd eyes searching Mr. Gammon all the time.

“Now,” said he, tipping down a battered wheelbarrow and sitting on it, “there’s nothin’ like gettin’ down to cases.  We’re here official.  The first selectman of this town is here.  Go ahead, Cap’n Sproul, and put your questions.”

“Ask ’em yourself,” snorted the Cap’n, with just a flicker of resentful malice; “you’re the witch expert.  I ain’t.”

“Well,” retorted Hiram, with an alacrity that showed considerable zest for the business in hand, “I never shirked duty.  First, what’s her name again—­the woman that’s doin’ it all?”

“I want you to come and see—­” began Mr. Gammon, apparently having his own ideas as to a witch-hunt, but Hiram shook the big cigar at him fiercely.

“We ain’t got time nor inclination for inspectin’ coffin-plates, wax-flowers, bewitched iron kittles, balky horses, and old ganders.  Who is this woman and where does she live, and what’s the matter with her?”

“She’s Arizima Orff, and that’s her house over the rise of that land where you can see the chimblys.”  Mr. Gammon was perfunctory in that reply, but immediately his little blue eyes began to sparkle and he launched out into his troubles.  “There’s them that don’t believe in witches.  I know that!  And they slur me and slander me.  I know it.  I don’t get no sympathy.  I—­”

“Shut up!” commanded the chief of the inquisition.

“They say I’m crazy.  But I know better.  Here I am with rheumaticks!  Don’t you s’pose I know where I got ’em?  It was by standin’ out all het up where she had hitched me after she’d rid’ me to one of the witch conventions.  She—­”