Arriving at that comfortable conclusion, Mr. Harnden lighted a cigar and chirruped to his horse and drove straight on.

The road zigzagged through an alder swamp for some distance, and the horse footed along slowly because a portion of the way was patched with sapling “corduroy.”  And with the impulse of a man who had been obliged to waste time, and saw an opportunity to get on, Harnden whipped up when he was again facing a smooth road.  Therefore he came suddenly around the bend of the alders into cleared country and abreast a farm.  It was a farm made up of the alluvial soil of the lowlands and was a rather pretentious tract of tillage, compared with the other hillside apologies of Egypt.  And the buildings were in fairly good repair.  It was the home of Jared Sparks Grant, the first selectman of the town.

Mr. Harnden did not look to right or left as his horse trotted past.  He did not appear to be interested in the affairs of Egyptians that day—­even in the case of the town’s chief executive.  When Harnden was hailed raucously he did not pull up, though he heard his name.  After a few moments a gun banged behind him.

“I’m saving the other barrel,” the voice announced, after Harnden had steered his horse from the gutter into the road; the animal had been frightened by the pattering of shot in the foliage of a tree overhead.  “You’ll get it straight, Harnden, unless you drive back here!”

When Harnden wheeled the horse and returned he perceived a dooryard group which he had affected not to see a few moments before.

There were Jared Sparks Grant, his son, his womenfolks, his hired man; Mr. Harnden recognized all of them, of course.  He also recognized Deputy-sheriff Wagner Dowd from the shire town.  Dowd had a couple of helpers with him.  It was plain that the shotgun which had halted Mr. Harnden had been very nigh at hand and ready for use; there was a look about the folks in the dooryard which suggested an armed truce, now prolonged, for the handling of the new arrival.

“Don’t you realize what’s going on here?” demanded Selectman Grant, his weapon in the hook of his arm.

“No!” asserted Mr. Harnden.

“I know a blamed sight better!  You can’t look at this deputy sheriff without turning redder than one of the apples in that fake picture book of yours.  You know what you have been doing in this town.”

The selectman’s tone was offensively harsh and loud.  Mr. Harnden was moved to show a little spirit, having been cornered—­and feeling protected by the presence of an officer of the law.  “I have been doing business!”

“Scooping in town orders, you mean!”

“Taking them in the due course of my business, Mr. Selectman.  I had a right to do it!”

“And what did you do with those orders?”

“I passed them on—­still in the course of my business.”

“And you don’t know into whose hands they have come?”