"I don't see any room for argyment, as Jed Mitch.e.l.l said whin----"

"Up with your hands! and drop that gun!" thundered the other, and Mike let the old rifle fall to his feet and reached up as if trying to hold the moon in place. Which incident requires an explanation.

Gerald Buxton, the father of Jim, had no sooner heard the story of his boy than he decided, as had been related, that something was wrong at the post office. He had read of the many robberies in southern Maine during the preceding summer, else he might not have been so quick to reach a conclusion. He woke his wife, told her his belief and then took down his shotgun from over the deer's antlers in the kitchen. Both barrels were always loaded, but to make sure of no lack of ammunition, he put a number of extra sh.e.l.ls loaded with heavy shot into his pockets.

"Remember," he said impressively to his son, "to stay home and not show your nose outside the door while I'm gone."

"Yaws, sir," meekly replied Jim, who three minutes later, unseen by his mother, sneaked out of the back door and reached the battlefield directly behind his parent.

Mr. Buxton had never had any experience with house breakers, and did some quick thinking from the moment he left his front gate until he arrived on the scene. Nothing seemed more natural than that the ruffians would not approach the house from the front, but by the rear. The light which Jim saw must have come from the back part of the store. For the gang to make their entrance from the main street would have been far more dangerous.

Because of this theory, Mr. Buxton crossed the road directly before his own house, pa.s.sed through the alley of a neighbor, and followed a circuitous course which compelled him to climb several back fences. But he knew all the people, and in case he was questioned could readily explain matters.

So in due time he came to the barn of one of his friends, and had turned to pa.s.s around it when to his astonishment a man dashed toward him on a dead run. Buxton was alert, and pointing his weapon, crisply commanded:

"Stop or I'll fire!"

The panting fellow obeyed with the exclamation:

"I'm so glad!"

"Glad of what?"

"That you came as you did. There are burglars in the post office!"

"That's what I thought, but wasn't sure. Who are you and why are you in such an all-fired hurry?"

"One of them is chasing me. I tried to wake the postmistress, when he heard me and I had to run for my life. How thankful I am that you appeared just in time!"

"Where is the scandalous villain?" demanded Mr. Buxton, glancing on all sides.

"He will be here in a minute."

"I shan't wait for him; tell me where he is."

The fugitive, who was momentarily expecting the appearance of his pursuer, pointed to the barn around which he had just dashed.

"He is coming from there. Look out, or he'll shoot you!"

"I'm ready for him," exclaimed the angered citizen as he hurriedly trotted off and confronted Mike Murphy a few seconds later.

We have learned of the pointed conversation which pa.s.sed between them.

Mike's first thought was that it was one of the robbers who had held him up, but there was no gainsaying the argument brought to bear against him.

He remained with hands uplifted, awaiting the will of his captor.

"So you're one of those post office robbers," said Mr. Buxton, partly lowering his weapon.

"Not that I know of," replied Mike, beginning to scent the truth.

"Have you a pistol?"

"The only deadly wippon I have is me pocketknife, with its two blades broke and the handle being lost some time since."

"Where is the rest of your gang?" demanded the man, stepping closer to the youth.

"The two frinds that I have are wid the widder Mrs. Friestone, doing their best to entertain the leddy and her daughter, while I started out to chase one of the spalpeens that run too fast for me to catch."

Mr. Buxton stepped still nearer. He was becoming doubtful.

"Who the mischief are you, anyway?"

"Mike Murphy, born in Tipperary, in the County of Tipperary, Ireland, and lately, arrove in Ameriky."

"What are you doing here?"

"Standing still for the time, as Pat Mulrooney said whin the byes tied him to the gate post and wint off and left him."

"Ain't you one of those post office robbers?"

The question told Mike the whole truth. It was a clever trick that had been played upon him, and his musical laugh rang out on the still night.

"What made ye have that opinion?"

"I just met a young chap the other side of this barn, and when I stopped him he said he was running away from an enemy."

"Which the same was the thruth."

"And that one of the gang was chasing him, meaning to shoot him."

"It's mesilf that would have shot if I'd had a gun wid a conscience, fur I catched the spalpeen when he was opening the safe of Widder Friestone, and I made after him; but most persons can run faster than mesilf, owing to me short legs, and he was laving me behind, whin ye interfared."

"Do you mean to tell me that first fellow was one of the burglars?" asked the astounded Mr. Buxton.

"As sure as ye are standing there admiring me looks."

"Confound the rapscallion! I'll get him yet!" and the irate citizen dashed off with the resolution, to put it mildly, of correcting the error he had made.

CHAPTER XIX

IN THE NICK OF TIME

Standing in the darkness of the upper front room, stealthily watching the mysterious stranger on the other side of the street in the shadow of the elm, and knowing that burglars were at work below stairs--the nerves of mother and daughter and of Alvin Landon and Chester Haynes were on edge.

Had they peered out of the window less than half an hour earlier they would have seen the meeting between the lookout and young Jim Buxton.