A few Sundays later I was sitting in the little tea-arbor of Rutli’s nursery, peacefully smoking with him.  Presently he took his long china-bowled pipe from his mouth, and, looking at me blandly over his yellow mustache, said:—­

“You vonts sometimes to go in dot house, eh?”

I said, “Decidedly.”

“Mit a revolver, and keep dot house dose men out?”

“Yes!”

“Vell!  I put you in dot house—­today!”

“Sunday?”

“Shoost so!  It is a goot day!  On der Suntay dree men vill out go to valk mit demselluffs, and visky trinken.  Two,” holding up two gigantic fingers, apparently only a shade or two smaller than his destined victims, “stay dere.  Dose I lift de fence over.”

I hastened to inform him that any violence attempted against the parties while in possession, although that possession was illegal, would, by a fatuity of the law, land him in the county jail.  I said I would not hear of it.

“But suppose dere vos no fiolence?  Suppose dose men vos villin’, eh?  How vos dot for high?”

“I don’t understand.”

“So!  You shall not understand!  Dot is better.  Go away now and dell your men to coom dot house arount at halluff past dree.  But you coom, mit yourselluff alone, shoost as if you vos spazieren gehen, for a valk, by dat fence at dree!  Ven you shall dot front door vide open see, go in, and dere you vos!  You vill der rest leef to me!”

It was in vain that I begged Rutli to divulge his plan, and pointed out again the danger of his technically breaking the law.  But he was firm, assuring me that I myself would be a witness that no assault would be made.  I looked into his clear, good-humored eyes, and assented.  I had a burning desire to right my wrongs, but I think I also had considerable curiosity.

I passed a miserable quarter of an hour after I had warned my partisans, and then walked alone slowly down the broad leafy street towards the scene of contest.  I have a very vivid recollection of my conflicting emotions.  I did not believe that I would be killed; I had no distinct intention of killing any of my adversaries; but I had some considerable concern for my loyal friend Rutli, whom I foresaw might be in some peril from the revolver in my unpracticed hand.  If I could only avoid shooting him, I would be satisfied.  I remember that the bells were ringing for church,—­a church of which my enemy, the chief squatter, was a deacon in good standing,—­and I felt guiltily conscious of my revolver in my hip-pocket, as two or three church-goers passed me with their hymn-books in their hands.  I walked leisurely, so as not to attract attention, and to appear at the exact time, a not very easy task in my youthful excitement.  At last I reached the front gate with a beating heart.  There was no one on the high veranda, which occupied three sides of the low one-storied house, nor in the garden before it.  But the front door was open; I softly passed through the gate, darted up the veranda and into the house.  A single glance around the hall and bare, deserted rooms, still smelling of paint, showed me it was empty, and with my pistol in one hand and the other on the lock of the door, I stood inside, ready to bolt it against any one but Rutli.  But where was he?