He had halted at a little distance from them, and had set down his sack.  He dove into it and held up a cylinder, something more than half a foot long, a brown, unassuming cylinder that certainly didn’t have anything about its looks to call out all the excitement that was convulsing Mr. Luce.

“Pee-ruse that!” squealed he. “There’s a lead-pencil that will write some news for ye.”  He shook the cylinder at them.  “And there’s plenty more of ’em in this bag.”  He curled his long lip back.  “Daminite!” he spat.  “I’ll show ye whuther I’m an outlaw or not.”

“And I know where you stole it,” bawled one of the bystanders indignantly.  “You stole all me and my brother bought and had stored for a season’s blastin’.  Constable Nute, I call on you to arrest him and give me back my property.”

“Arrest me, hey?” repeated Mr. Luce.  In one hand he shook aloft the stick of dynamite, with its dangling fuse that grimly suggested the detonating cap at its root.  In the other hand he clutched a bunch of matches.  “You start in to arrest me and you’ll arrest two miles straight up above here, travellin’ a hundred miles a minit.”

“There ain’t any grit in him, Nute,” mumbled Cap’n Sproul.  “Jest give a whoop and dash on him.”

“That sounds glib and easy,” demurred the prudent officer, “but if that man hasn’t gone clean loony then I’m no jedge.  I don’t reckon I’m goin’ to charge any batteries.”

“You’ll do what I tell you to!  You’re an officer, and under orders.”

“You told me once to take up Hiram Look’s el’funt and put her in the pound,” remonstrated the constable.  “But I didn’t do it, and I wasn’t holden to do it.  And I ain’t holden to run up and git blowed to everlastin’ hackmetack with a bag of dynamite.”

“Look here, Nute,” cried the Cap’n, thoroughly indignant and shifting the contention to his officer—­entirely willing to ignore Mr. Luce’s threats and provocations—­“I haven’t called on you in a tight place ever in my life but what you’ve sneaked out.  You ain’t fit for even a hog-reeve.  I’m going to cancel your constable appointment, that’s what I’ll do when I get to town hall.”

“I’ll do it right now,” declared the offended Mr. Nute, unpinning his badge.  “Any time you’ve ordered me to do something sensible I’ve done it.  But el’funts and lunatics and dynamite and some of the other jobs you’ve unlo’ded onto me ain’t sensible, and I won’t stand for ’em.  You can’t take me in the face and eyes of the people and rake me over.”  He had noted that the group in the highway had considerably increased.  “I’ve resigned.”

Mr. Luce was also more or less influenced and emboldened and pricked on by being the centre of eyes.  As long as he seemed to be expected to give a show, he proposed to make it a good one.  His flaming eyes fell on T. Taylor, busy over the stove, getting it ready for its journey back to Vienna.  Mr. Taylor, happy in the recovery of his property, was paying little attention to outlaws or official disputes.  He had cleaned out the coals and ashes, and having just now discovered the tin of biscuit, tossed it away.  This last seemed too much for Mr. Luce’s self-control.