Five hundred hands flew up, five hundred voices cried, “I’m with ye, Major Cozby!” But the Major only shook his head and smiled.  What he said was lost in the roar.  Fighting my way forward, I saw him get down from the stump, put his hand kindly on Nick’s shoulder, and lead him into the court-house.  They were followed by a score of others, and the door was shut behind them.

It was then I bethought myself of the letter to Mr. Wright, and I sought for some one who would listen to my questions as to his whereabouts.  At length the man himself was pointed out to me, haranguing an excited crowd of partisans in front of his own gate.  Some twenty minutes must have passed before I could get any word with him.  He was a vigorous little man, with black eyes like buttons, he wore brown homespun and white stockings, and his hair was clubbed.  When he had yielded the ground to another orator, I handed him the letter.  He drew me aside, read it on the spot, and became all hospitality at once.  The town was full, and though he had several friends staying in his house I should join them.  Was my horse fed?  Dinner had been forgotten that day, but would I enter and partake?  In short, I found myself suddenly provided for, and I lost no time in getting my weary mount into Mr. Wright’s little stable.  And then I sat down, with several other gentlemen, at Mr. Wright’s board, where there was much guessing as to Major Cozby’s plan.

“No other man west of the mountains could have calmed that crowd after that young daredevil Temple had stirred them up,” declared Mr. Wright.

I ventured to say that I had business with Mr. Temple.

“Faith, then, I will invite him here,” said my host.  “But I warn you, Mr. Ritchie, that he is a trigger set on the hair.  If he does not fancy you, he may quarrel with you and shoot you.  And he is in no temper to be trifled with to-day.”

“I am not an easy person to quarrel with,” I answered.

“To look at you, I shouldn’t say that you were,” said he.  “We are going to the court-house, and I will see if I can get a word with the young Hotspur and send him to you.  Do you wait here.”

I waited on the porch as the day waned.  The tumult of the place had died down, for men were gathering in the houses to discuss and conjecture.  And presently, sauntering along the street in a careless fashion, his spurs trailing in the dust, came Nicholas Temple.  He stopped before the house and stared at me with a fine insolence, and I wondered whether I myself had not been too hasty in reclaiming him.  A greeting died on my lips.

“Well, sir,” he said, “so you are the gentleman who has been dogging me all day.”

“I dog no one, Mr. Temple,” I replied bitterly.

“We’ll not quibble about words,” said he.  “Would it be impertinent to ask your business—­and perhaps your name?”

“Did not Mr. Wright give you my name?” I exclaimed.

“He might have mentioned it, I did not hear.  Is it of such importance?”