The Chronic Loafer held in his hand a single sheet of a Philadelphia paper nine days old. The other pages had long since left the store in service as wrappings. This treasure he had rescued from such ignominious use and now was poring over it letter by letter. The center of the page was within three inches of the end of his nose. His brow was furrowed and his lips moved. At intervals he lifted his right hand and with the forefinger beat time to his reading. He was comfortably fixed on an egg-crate close by the stove. The paper hid him from the view of his companions. They could not see the earnest workings of his features but they could hear a steady, sonorous mumble and were curious. They knew better than to interrupt him in his arduous task, however, and awaited with commendable patience the time when he should choose to come forth from his seclusion and tell them all about it.

They had not long to wait. Suddenly he[108] jerked his head forward three times, viciously butting the paper, simultaneously emitting a burring sound not unlike that of an angry bull when he tears up the sod with his horns. The curtain fell to show him calm again but with a puzzled expression on his countenance.

“Teacher,” he said, “what does h-a-b-e-a-s spell?”

“Hab-by-ace,” replied the pedagogue promptly. He threw out his chest and fixed his thumbs in their favorite resting-place, the arm-holes of his waistcoat. His attitude was that of a man who was full to the neck with general information and only needed uncorking.

“Habbyace,” said the Loafer. “Habbyace—habbyace—that’s a new un on me.”

“Doubtless it is,” the other retorted, “if you have never studied Latin. It means have.”

“Have—have,” muttered the Loafer, more puzzled than ever. “Then what’s c-o-r-p-u-s spell?”

“Corpuse,” replied the pedagogue, “being the Latin for body.”

“Then I’m stumped.” The Loafer crumpled up his paper in one hand and shook the other at the assembled company. “Them ceety lawyers certainly beat the band.”

“What’s all the trouble now?” inquired the Tinsmith.

The Loafer unfolded the sheet again and[109] smoothed it out on his knees. Then he leaned over it and eyed it intently.

“I was jest readin’ a piece about a man called Jawhn O’Brien,” he said slowly. “He was ’rested fer killin’ his wife an’ two young uns. It sais the evydence is dead agin him an’ he is sure to hang. He has hired J. Montgomery Cole to defend him. The first thing the lawyer does is to go inter court an’ ast fer a habbyace corpuse. Mighty souls! The idee! How’s that to defend a man—jest to ast fer his dead body.”

The Patriarch shook his head solemnly. “Terrible—terrible,” he said. “Sech men ought never git diplomys.”

“Yit, Gran’pap,” suggested the Tinsmith, “don’t ye think after all it’s best they is some sech lawyers? Why, ef it wasn’t fer the dumb lawyers they’d never be no murderers brought to jestice.”

“True—true,” said the old man. “Now it used to be that ’hen a man committed murder he was tried, an’ ef the evydence was agin him, he was hung. Nowadays a felly commits murder an’ a year is spent hevin’ him indickted. After he’s indickted a year is ockypied with these habbyace corpuse proceedin’s. They settles who gits the body in caset he’s hung an’ then they finds what they calls a ‘flaw in the indicktment.’ They indickts him agin. Next comes the question of a ‘change in vendue.’ It takes a year to argy that pint an’ after it the trial begins. Ef he’s found[110] innercent it means he’s ben livin’ th’ee years doin’ nawthin’ at the county’s expense. Ef he’s found guilty his lawyer takes what they calls an ‘exception,’ meanin’ he objects to him bein’ hung. It takes a year to——”

“But, Gran’pap,” interrupted the Loafer, “ye must remember that the principle o’ the law is that because a man commits murder is no sign he’s guilty.”

“I know—I know,” the Patriarch said. “Ye can’t catch me on law. I thot o’ stedyin’ it oncet. But ez I was sayin’—where was it I left off?”

“What’s a ‘change o’ vendue,’ Gran’pap?” inquired the Miller.

The old man glared at the speaker.

“That wasn’t the pint where I left off,” he snapped.

“Yes, but what is it, Gran’pap?” the Tinsmith asked.

But the Patriarch had forgotten all about the defects of the law. He had leaned forward, resting his hands on his cane and his head on his hands, and was studying the floor intently.

“Buttonporgie stood six feet two in his stockin’s,” he said half aloud, after a long silence. “That there was the way to do ’em. Now ef Si Berrybush hed ben livin’ to-day, he’d be fussin’ with indicktments an’ changes of vendues an’ all them things an’——”

[111]

“Who air you talkin’ to now?” exclaimed the Loafer.

The old man looked up. “Oh!” he said. “I forgot. Sure, I forgot. Ye never heard o’ Tom Buttonporgie did ye, or Si Berrybush?”

None of the company had heard of the pair, so the Patriarch consented to enlighten them.

“I got the main pints o’ the story from Tom himself,” he began. “He used to tell it ’hen he stayed at my pap’s place ’hen I was a bit of a boy. He allus told it the same way, too, which was evydence of it bein’ true. I wish all you uns could ’a’ heard him. Mighty, but it was a treat! Why, he was never in our house two minutes till us children was runnin’ ’round him callin’ to him to tell us how he done Si Berrybush. But he’d never give us a word till he’d opened his pedler’s pack an’ sold somethin’ to Ma an’ the girls. Next it was his supper an’ a pipe. Then I’d climb on his one knee an’ my sister Solly on the other. Ed an’ May ’ud git on the wood-box an’ Pap an’ Ma on the settee. It took th’ee pipes to wind Tom up. Then he’d go beautiful. The words ’ud role out like music an’ you’d fergit the kitchen an’ the folks around. You’d be out in the woods with him, steppin’ along with him hour after hour ez he was carryin’ Si Berrybush to freedom. You’d see the things ez he saw, an’ you’d feel the things ez he felt. Now ye was low down an’ discouraged. Everything was[112] dark ez ye stumbled on an’ on, achin’ in every limb, expectin’ each minute ’ud be your last. Now ye was hopin’. They was a chance fer ye yit. The light broke. The load was gone. Si Berrybush was gone, an’ ye was back in the ole kitchen agin, with Pap an’ Ma sound asleep on the settee.

“Ez I was sayin’, Tom Buttonporgie stood six feet two in his stockin’s an’ was a most powerful man, fer walkin’ day after day, luggin’ a great pack on his back, hed give him the muscles of an ox. He used to come to this walley oncet every summer so he knowd well o’ Si Berrybush, who was the desperatest man ever seen in these parts. Si’s ockypation was robbin’. He made his headquarters in the mo’ntain acrosst the river. His hand was agin everybody an’ everybody knowd it, yit he never was catched. Oncet a pedler was found dead in the bushes with a bullet hole in his head an’ his pack turned inside out. They sayd Berrybush did it, so he went down to the Sheriff’s an’ give himself up. They was no evydence an’ he walked home agin. A couple o’ times things like that happened an’ yit they was never an ioty o’ proof. He’d ’a’ died a nat’ral death, I guess, ef he hedn’t forgot himself one night in the willage an’ shot Joe Hyde. They was too many fellys handy who hed grudges agin him to let him git away, an’ they clapped him in jail, tried him an’ sentenced him to be hung.

[113]

“Now, about this time, Tom Buttonporgie come over the mo’ntain inter the walley. Late in the afternoon he reached Ben Clock’s place near Eden, an’ ez they knowd him well they ast him to spend the night. After supper the family hed a game o’ cards an’ about nine o’clock Tom tuk up his pack an’ started fer the barn where he was to sleep, fer the house was full. Clock lighted the way with a lantern an’ saw him comfortable fixed. The pack was stowed away in a corner o’ the barn-floor, while the pedler was settled nice ez ye please on a horse-blanket in the hay-mow.

“Tom Buttonporgie slept sound an’ hard. Everything in this world was pleasant fer him. Things was goin’ his way. It’s strange that it should be so, boys, but yit it is true that sleep comes easiest an’ quickest to them ez hes nawthin’ but good things to forget in it. So from the time he laid his head down on the hay till a kick awoke him, Tom knowd nawthin’. He opened his eyes with a jerk an’ set up an’ rubbed ’em. The airly mornin’ light was jest creepin’ inter the barn, but he could make out only a small, dark figure a few feet away.

“‘Good morning, Mr. Clock,’ sais he wery pleasant, tho’ he was a leetle put out at the rough way he’d ben woke.

“‘Good mornin’, Tom,’ sais the figure wery cheerful. ‘You’ve mistook me, fer my name is Berrybush.’

[114]

“‘Hen the pedler hear that he made a grab fer his pistol. He’d laid it in the hay close to him, but now it was gone. He started to rise but he felt a steel bawrel pressed agin his head. Buttonporgie was big an’ full o’ grit, but he knowd that ye can’t argy with lead. So he set down.

“‘Well,’ sais he, ‘I guess you’ve got me, Mr. Berrybush.’

“‘I think I hev,’ the murderer answers, ‘an’ I’ve got ye good,’ he sais. ‘I intend to keep ye, too, fer I’m right fresh out o’ jail an’ soon the whole country’ll be lookin’ fer me. Excuse the familiarity,’ he goes on polite like, ‘but we’ll be Tom an’ Si fer some hours to come, fer you’re to carry me outen these parts in your pack.’

“That idee made Buttonporgie gasp. He tried to git up but bumped agin the pistol.

“Si Berrybush laughed an’ went on in that pleasant way o’ his: ‘I notice the plan ain’t takin’ well with ye, Tom, but you’ll see how nice it works. While you slept,’ he sais, ‘I fixed the pack. The goods is all stowed away here in the hay an’ I find I fit the leather box to a T. I git in it; you put it on your back an’ go th’ee mile an hour. Nawthin’s easier.’

“Then he laughed like he’d die.

“Be this time they was quite some light in the barn an’ the pedler was able to see who he hed to deal with. The first sight was encouragin’, fer he was but a bit of a man, not more than five[115] feet th’ee. He’d a wery small body set on crooked spindle legs. His face was pleasant enough, fer they was nawthin’ in his leetle, black eyes an’ heavy, red beard to mark him ez a desperaydo. The only real onlikely thing about him was the pedler’s pistol.

“Tom kind o’ cheers up now an’ sais, sais he, ‘Si, you’ve mistook the whole thing. Don’t ye see I’ll turn ye over to the first men we meet?’

“At that Si th’owed back his head an’ laughed.

“‘Will ye?’ he sais. ‘Well I guess ye would, only this pistol’ll be stickin’ th’oo a hole in the back o’ the pack. Ef you go to carry out sech an idee two bullets’ll end the both of us, an’ that’s a sight better than hangin’. So come on,’ he sais. ‘We must be movin’.’

“Tom wasn’t in fer undertakin’ sech a job without objectin’.

“‘See here, Si!’ he sais. ‘I appeals to you ez a gentleman,’ he sais. ‘I’ve allus heard you was a gentleman in spite o’ your faults—I appeal to you to tell me what good it would do you to kill yourself an’ me too. You hain’t no particular spite agin me,’ Tom goes on, ‘an’ I hain’t no particular spite agin you. I’m willin’ fer you to stay in this barn an’ me git out, or fer you to git out an’ me stay, both of us keepin’ quiet.’

“Si’s eyes kind o’ twinkled an’ he pulled his beard like he was thinkin’ wery hard.

“‘Shake me, Tom!’ he sais at last, ‘ef I don’t[116] like a man o’ your sperrit. Ef I wasn’t in sech a bad hole I’d be tempted to accept your offer. But onfortunate fer both of us,’ he sais, ‘this whole walley will be overrun with searchin’ parties in a few hours. They’ve got a chancet to hang Si Berrybush an’ they ain’t goin’ to lose it ef they can help it.’

“Buttonporgie was a nice man an’ a smart man at his business, but they was some things that it was a leetle hard to git into his head.

“‘See here!’ he sais, not satisfied. ‘I can’t see what good it ’ud do you to shoot me ef I was to call one o’ them searchin’ parties to take a look in my pa............