“Now, ye see, my friend,” says Mr. Sheriff, in a quaint tone, “there’s three fi fas on that critter.  Hold a minute!” He must needs take a better glance; he runs his fingers over the page again, mutters to himself, and then breaks out into a half-musical, half-undefinable humming.  “It’s a snarled-up affair, the whole on’t.  T’ll take a plaguy cunnin’ lawyer to take the shine out.”  The sheriff pushes the piece of coin nearer the inkstand, into the centre of the table.  “I feel all over like accommodatin’ ye,” he deigns to say; “but then t’ll be so pestky crooked gettin’ the thing straight.”  He hesitates before the wonderful difficulty,—­he can’t see his way straight through it.  “Three fi fas!  I believe I’m correct; there’s one principal one, however.”

“I pledge my honour for her return in the morning; and she shall be all shined up with a new dress.  Her presence is imperatively necessary to-night,” M’Carstrow remarks, becoming impatient.

“Two fi fas!-well, the first look looked like three.  But, the principal one out of the way,—­no matter.”  Mr. Sheriff becomes more and more enlightened on the unenlightened difficulties of the law.  He remarks, touching M’Carstrow on the arm, with great seriousness of countenance, “I sees how the knot’s tied.  Ye know, my functions are turned t’ most everything; and it makes a body see through a thing just as straight as—.  Pest on’t!  Ye see, it’s mighty likely property,—­don’t strike such every day.  That gal ’ll bring a big tick in the market-”

“Excuse me, my dear sir,” M’Carstrow suddenly interrupts.  “Understand me, if you please.  I want her for nothing that you contemplate,—­nothing, I pledge you my honour as a southern gentleman!”

“‘Ah,—­bless me!  Well, but there’s nothin’ in that.  I see!  I see!  I see!” Mr. Sheriff brightens up, his very soul seems to expand with legal tenacity.  “Well, ye see, there’s a question of property raised about the gal, and her young ’un, too-nice young ’un ’tis; but it’s mighty easy tellin’ whose it is.  About the law matter, though, you must get the consent of all the plaintiff’s attorneys,—­that’s no small job.  Lawyers are devilish slippery, rough a feller amazingly, once in a while; chance if ye don’t have to get the critter valued by a survey.  Graspum, though’s ollers on hand, is first best good at that:  can say her top price while ye’d say seven,” says Mr. Sheriff, maintaining his wise dignity, as he reminds M’Carstrow that his name is Cur, commonly called Mr. Cur, sheriff of the county.  It must not be inferred that Mr. Cur has any of the canine qualities about him.  The hour for the ceremony is close at hand.  M’Carstrow, satisfied that rules of law are very arbitrary things in the hands of officials-that such property is difficult to get out of the meshes of legal technicality-that honour is neither marketable or pledgeable in such cases, must move quickly:  he seeks the very conscientious attorneys, gets them together, pleads the necessity