“There’s McNoll and Callyhan.”

The pair were walking a few steps ahead of Samson and Harry.  In a second Samson’s big hand was on McNoll’s shoulder.

“This is Mr. McNoll, I believe,” said Samson.

The other turned with a scared look.

“What do ye want o’ me?” he demanded.

Samson threw him to the ground with a jerk so strong and violent that it rent the sleeve from his shoulder.  McNoll’s companion who had felt the weight of Samson’s hand and had had enough of it turned and ran.

“What do ye want o’ me?” McNoll asked again as he struggled to free himself.

“What do I want o’ you—­you puny little coward,” said Samson, as he lifted the bully to his feet and gave him a toss and swung him in the air and continued to address him.  “I’m just goin’ to muss you up proper.  If you don’t say you’re sorry and mean it I’ll put a tow string on your neck and give you to some one that wants a dog.”

“I’m sorry,” said McNoll.  “Honest I am!  I was drunk when I done it.”

Samson released his prisoner.  A number in the crowd which had gathered around them clapped their hands and shouted, “Hurrah for the stranger!”

A constable took Samson’s hand and said:  “You deserve a vote of thanks.  That man and his friends have made me more trouble than all the rest of the drinking men put together.”

“And I am making trouble for myself,” said Samson.  “I have made myself ashamed.  I am no fighting man, I was never in such a muss on a public street before and with God’s help it will never happen again.”

“Where do you live?” the officer asked.

“In New Salem.”

“I wish it was here.  We need men like you.  What part of the East do you hail from?”

“Vermont,” Samson answered.  “I’ve just bought land and built a cabin a little west of the village.  Came here for a load of furniture.”

“I’m a Maine man and a Whig and opposed to slavery and my name is Erastus Wright,” said the constable.

“I am a Whig and against slavery,” Samson volunteered.

“I could tell that by the look of you,” said the constable.  “Some day we must sit down together and talk things over.”

Samson wrote in his diary: 

* * * * *

“On the way home my heart was sore.  I prayed in silence that God would forgive me for my bad example to the boy.  I promised that I would not again misuse the strength He has given me.  In my old home I would have been disgraced by it.  The minister would have preached of the destruction that follows the violent man to put him down; the people would have looked askance at me.  Deacon Somers would have called me aside to look into my soul, and Judge Grandy and his wife would not have invited me to their parties.  Here it’s different.  A chap who can take the law in his hands and bring the evil man to his senses, even if he has to hit him over the head, is