The Just and the Unjust | Page 5

he gets over the ground.
I never seen a horse that gets over the ground like Bill does."
Which was probably true enough, for Bill employed every known gait.
"He's a mighty well-broke horse!" agreed Custer in a tone of sincere
conviction.
"He is. He's got more gaits than you can shake a stick at!" said Mr.
Shrimplin.
Privately he labored under the delusion that Bill was dangerous; even
years of singular rectitude on Bill's part had failed to alter his original
opinion on this one point, and he often told Custer that he would have
felt lost with a horse just anybody could have driven, for while Bill
might not and probably would not have suited most people, he suited
him all right.
"Well, good-by, son," said Mr. Shrimplin, slapping Bill with the lines.
Bill went out of the alley back of Mr. Shrimplin's small barn, his head
held high, and taking tremendous strides that somehow failed in their
purpose if speed was the result desired.
Twilight deepened; the snow fell softly, silently, until it became a
ghostly mist that hid the town--hid the very houses on opposite sides of
the street, and through this flurry Bill shuffled with unerring instinct,
dragging Mr. Shrimplin from lamp-post to lamp-post, until presently
down the street a long row of lights blazed red in the swirling smother

of white.
Custer reëntered the house. The day held the sentiment of Sunday and
this he found depressing. He had also dined ambitiously, and this he
found even more depressing. He wondered vaguely, but with no large
measure of hope, if there would be sledding in the morning. Probably it
would turn warm during the night; he knew how those things went.
From his seat by the stove he watched the hurrying flakes beyond the
windows, and as he watched, the darkness came down imperceptibly
until he ceased to see beyond the four walls of the room.
Mrs. Shrimplin was busy with her mending. She did not attempt
conversation with her son, though she occasionally cast a curious
glance in his direction; he was not usually so silent. All at once the boy
started.
"What's that?" he cried.
"La, Custer, how you startle a body! It's the town bell. I should think
you'd know; you've heard it often enough." As she spoke she glanced at
the clock on the shelf in the corner of the room. "I guess that clock's
stopped again," she added, but in the silence that followed her words
they both heard it tick.
The bell rang on.
"It ain't half past seven yet. Maybe it's a fire!" said Custer. He quitted
his chair and moved to the window. "I wish they'd give the ward.
They'd ought to. How's a body to know--"
"Set down, Custer!" commanded his mother sharply. "You ain't going
out! You know your pa don't allow you to go to no fires after night."
"You don't call this night!" He was edging toward the door.
"Yes, I do!"
"A quarter after seven ain't night!" he expostulated.

"No arguments, Custer! You sit down! I won't have you trapesing about
the streets."
Custer turned back from the door and resumed his seat.
"Why don't they give the ward? I never heard such a fool way of
ringing for a fire!" he said.
They were silent, intent and listening. Now the wind was driving the
sound clamorously across the town.
"They ain't give the ward yet!" said Custer at length, in a tone of great
disgust. "I could ring for a fire better than that!"
"I wish your pa was to home!" said Mrs. Shrimplin.
As she spoke they caught the muffled sound of hurrying feet, then the
clamor of voices, eager and excited; but presently these died away in
the distance, and again they heard only the bell, which rang on and on
and on.
CHAPTER TWO
THE PRICE OF FOLLY
John North occupied the front rooms on the first floor of the three-story
brick structure that stood at the corner of Main Street and the Square.
The only other tenant on the floor with him was Andy Gilmore, who
had apartments at the back of the building. Until quite recently Mr.
North and Mr. Gilmore had been friends and boon companions, but of
late North had rather avoided this neighbor of his.
Mount Hope said that North had parted with the major portion of his
small fortune to Gilmore. Mount Hope also said and believed, and with
most excellent justification for so doing, that North was a fool--a truth
he had told himself so many times within the last month that it had
become the utter weariness of iteration.

He was a muscular young fellow of twenty-six, with a handsome face,
and, when he chose, a kindly charming manner. He had been--and