Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 28, No. 3, November 12, 1927

“W’ot ’n tarnation y’ tryin’ t’ do?” Del demanded of Whitcher. “All this pictur’ takin’ o’ y’rs latty ’as turned into cussed serious business!”

I

It was after sunrise before the men of Noel’s Landing were fully satisfied that the final spark had been stamped out around the charred remains of Augustus Borden’s barn.

Perhaps all this scrupulous care had not actually been necessary, yet in a section where growing pine is king — where the greater majority gain their livelihood by the marketing of it, in fact — fire is a mighty serious problem. A gust of wind may take a single burning ember and ruin thousands of acres of valuable timber.

Now that the danger in this particular case was past, however, every one breathed easier — breathed easier as well as did their laughing with that forced gayety that invariably follows acute relief. Naturally, too, Borden was again asked to tell precisely how the unfortunate business had started.

“Up in m’ bedroom sleepin’ when the first crack o’ thunder woke me,” explained Gus Borden. “Well, I says t’ m’self, I says, I guess we’re in for another o’ them durn lightnin’ storms.

“Allus hated’em, I have, ever since I see Ben Gedney’s home over t’ Hallowell struck ’bout five-six year ago.

“I… I dunno, but I kept gettin’ afraid an’ more afraid that some time it ’ud bum me out, especially since I been havin’ a streak o’ bad luck these last few year. Cows a-dyin’ — m’ best horse a-breaking his leg — that frost o’ two falls ago killin’ m’ corn—”

He paused, did this middle-aged man with a soured, sullen face, and gave a bitter laugh:

“Honest,” he went on, “I come t’ feel so scairy, when that storm started, that I woke Myra and says t’ her we’d better be ready t’ git out if that lightnin’ hit us.

“Yes, sir... yes, sir, boys — an’ it wa’n’t one-two minutes later, so help me, that there comes that crack an’ crash that lit up the whole sky. I… well, when I look out I see why it’s lit up so redlike. The barn was blazin’ — blazin’ right up t’ the east end, at the top where the hayloft is!”

He hesitated again. His laugh, this time, came so bitterly that it stabbed. He turned to the tired-faced, hurt-eyed woman beside him:

“Ain’t that right, Myra?”

“Yes… yes, that’s how it happened, Augustus,” she responded with a sigh, pulling a rather dilapidated wrapper closer about her throat.

“Nope, you can’t beat luck,” stated Borden, seeming to almost take satisfaction in his belief. “You just can’t beat luck, boys!”

One or two of his audience began to cheerfully tell, as men have the habit of doing in all calamities, of other fires they had known — of bigger and better fires, as it were.

Before any single individual could dominate the stage, however, Whitcher Bemis had waddled up with his two hundred and sixty-odd pounds and solemnly confronted Gus:

“No ’nsurance, huh?”

“Why… why, o’ course I got insurance,” Borden almost snarled, “but what in hell good does a’ eight-hundred-dollar insurance do when it comes t’ buildin’ a new barn? My, sheriff, with the price o’ lumber an’ labor at four t’ five a day—”

He threw up his hands and left the answer to the imagination, and Whitcher nodded gravely:

“That’s right, that’s right. Mos’ gen-’rally a feller do hanker t’ build up a burned barn! That’s right, that’s right. Eight hundred dollars wouldn’ go s’ fur! Y’… y’ aim t’ build her up agin, then — that wot y’ mean?”

“Seein’ as I didn’t lose m’ stock I’d sort o’ like t’ put a roof over ’em, with winter comin’ on,” retorted Borden with what was presumed to be deep sarcasm. “On top o’ that, I reckon I got t’ have a place t’ put me some hay an’—”

“Y’ got t’ excuse our Mr. Bemis f’r his lack o’ knowledge when it comes t’ farmin’ an’ sech things. Y’ see, seein’ y’ only been in this neighborhood five-six months, Mr. Borden, y’ don’t know that W’itcher’s a mighty dummed good sheriff.

“That… well, that is, y’ see I mean, when he ain’t a-busy birdin’ ’r troutin’, ’r taken up with this here philat’ly — this here business o’ electin’ postage stamps from furrin countries an’ sech. Ain’t that right, Boyce?”

It was Chet Thomas who had spoken — spoken in his exaggeratedly solicitous drawl. He was indefatigable, he and Boyce Hutchins — indefatigable and fiendishly ingenuous, almost — in running down Bemis stock and boosting that of Ned Hutchins, defeated opposition candidate for the office of sheriff Young Boyce, now, proved that he and his running mate worked in perfect accord.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, reflectively rubbing his jaw as several titters went through the crowd, “W’itcher’s a plumb cussed dummed good sheriff, when he can spare the time t’ work at it. He’s — why, shucks, he’s right what y ’might call phenom’nal, he is.

“Say… say, Borden, he can do the best dee-tective work y’ ever saw; he can allus find a myst’ry where they almost ain’t. none; he can—”

He broke off suddenly. His face lengthened thoughtfully as he surveyed the ring of amused watchers — and then his eyes lit up and he doubled his right fist and crashed it down into his other palm like a man who is highly excited about having just made a remarkable discovery.

“Dammit… dammit, Chet,” he cried, “but I’ll bet y’ he can find a myst’ry right ’n this here fire!”

They rested on their oars, after that one. Augustus Borden looked questioningly about at the men who had helped him to futilely fight the fire.

Most of them, indeed, also seemed a trifle put out, their faces plainly saying that this was no time to make a jest. They gave their attention, however, to Whitcher Bemis, as they usually did in any crisis.

He, though, went even further in unkindness than the smart young pair of squirts, for he certainly appeared to be deliberately and most unnecessarily hitting a man when he was down.

“Yeah,” he said, pulling out his lip and letting it snap back with a loud plop, “I cal’late y’ sh’u’d ought t’ have a roof over y’r live stock, Borden. Callate it’s plumb — plumb ’mperative, like y’ might put it. Ol’ Gid Loomis hankers t’ have goods he’s got a mortgage on pr’tected, I believe. Loaned y’ two hundred on y’r cattle, didn’ he?”

II

Augustus Borden, consensus of opinion later seemed to have it, had been pretty close to the point of actually attacking Whitcher Bemis. A few of the old timers, however — notably Jeff Moseby and Walt Trowbridge — had stepped in and expertly changed the conversation.

They gravely started in on a discussion of the best type of barn for Borden to build, insisting that the one just burned down had been too big, too unhandy, for modem use, and the owner of the ruins agreed with them.

But the sun was getting well up, by now, and men started drifting away. One fellow, as he walked off, averred that the fire they had witnessed had been as exciting as one they had seen in a news reel down to the Landing last week:

“Noos reel, eh? Pictures, eh? Hmmm… hmmm!”

It was Bemis who had spoken, for the words of the retreating young chap had apparently been heard by him as he had stood there seemingly lost in thought.

He continued, after he had delivered himself, to still appear to be in a mental haze, except that now he was ever so gently caressing his ponderous lower lip as he gazed at the blackened timbers that lay scattered on the ground.

“Pictures, eh?” he said again. “Remin’s me, that do. Feller up here last year, salmon fishin’, sold some pictures — some o’ them kodak photygraphs, that’s all they was — t’ one o’ them Boston daily papers that’s got a page o’ pictures sort o’ called Int’restin’ Happenin’s.

“Tol’ — shucks tol’ me, he did, that any time I saw me somethin’ on-usual t’ snap it with m’ camery ’n’ send it t’ him. Noospaper feller, he were — said he c’d sell ’em f’r me. Got his address some’eres — in m’ desk t’ home.

“Won’er how much they pay? Won’er c’d I — Judas Priest,” he ended up, his eyes widening and shining, “I won’er ’f I c’d git me ’nough t’ buy that there early Bermuda stamp ’r that Internal Revenoo I been wantin’, ’r p’r’aps mebbe—”

His voice trailed off into an unintelligible mumble, at that, and both Mr. and Mrs. Borden, who had lived in the region a mere six or seven months, looked at him as the average person does when they have suddenly concluded that they are in the company of a half-wit.

The natives who had lingered on, though, planted their feet solidly and tried for comfortable positions, for when the sheriff started off on either stamps or birds or trout there was no telling what he would do or say. They waited eagerly — but at least they learned nothing more about philately.

“Say, Jeff. Help a toiler out, will y’? ’Fraid ’f I leave here, m’self, I’ll… well, I’ll f’rgit me jest how these pictures sh’u’d ought t’ be took. I… shucks, Jeff, hop ’n m’ flivver ’n’ chug her down t’m’ house ’n’ git me m’ camery, will y’? Top o’ m’ desk, it be. Right here’s the keys!”

Yes, he was a good friend, was Jeff Moseby — one of the rare type who do a favor without asking why or wherefore or trying to tell of a better way in which it might be accomplished.

This being so, he took the keys without a word, and in another moment he had cranked up the flivver and departed.

“Gosh… gosh,” mused Bemis, blinking after the car, “dunno’s I sh’u’d ’a’ ’lowed Jeff t’ git me that picture-box, at that. Noo-fangled one, she be. Takes more things — more objec’s, I mean — th’n any other camerys. Noo invention, sort o’. Neg’tive ’n’ lens’s—”

The sheriff of Noel’s Landing, however, broke off. He seemed to be flushing — flushing as a man does who is angry because he has realized he has possibly spoken too much about private matters. And again, rather odd to relate, he took out his anger — or his spleen, at least — on Augustus Borden.

“Ain’t got no objections t’ m’ takin’ a few pictures, I s’pose, have y’?” he asked. He did not, however, put the query in a natural and pleasant tone; his voice, instead, was decidedly belligerent, and so was the glare in his eyes.

The farmer originally from down Hallowell way seemed puzzled — very much puzzled. The little frown on his brow and the slightly worried look in his eyes plainly told that he didn’t know what it was all about, just as the sudden grim set of his lips explained that he had made his decision not to be angered into a fuss. His words came with restraint:

“Reckon I can’t stop y’ takin’ pictures, sheriff; reckon I don’t care if y’ do or not!”

“Hmmm… hmmm. Sure o’ that?”

“Yeah, I’m sure, all right,” replied Borden, looking tired of the whole business.

“Hmmm… hmmm!”

Bemis, this time, got that far-away expression in his eyes, after grunting, and allowed the thumb and index finger of his right hand to go to his huge lip with his characteristic gesture. Fondling it, he turned and faced the wan-featured Myra Borden, and when he yanked it out and let it go hurriedly back with a sharp report he snapped out an equally sharp question at the woman:

“You got any objections t’ havin’ me take pictures?”

She seemed frightened at that, and jumped back with a little gasp, her eyes turning to her husband. He, his sullen face further darkening, again looked as if he might try to attack the sheriff.

This time, however, he regained control of himself without any outside aid, and he spoke with what was close to a petulant whine:

“Aw… aw, cripes, sheriff, what is this durned fool picture thing? I mean… I mean ain’t I said I ain’t got no objections?”

“ ’Gustus Borden,” replied Whitcher, using his most official and pompous tone, “I got t’ remin’ y’ I wa’n’t speakin’ t’ you — speakin’ t’ y’r wife, I were! Got t’ remin’ y’, too, that I got me a ’ficial priv’lege, do I hanker t’ use it, t’ ask any question o’ any one!”

Finishing, he turned his back on the farmer from Hallowell and again faced the woman. His voice was quite stern:

“You got any objections, m’am?”

“I… I… ho, Mr. Sheriff, I… I guess I ain’t, just like Gus says,” she managed to get out, her hurt eyes looking more hurt as she clutched her shabby wrap more tightly about her throat.

“Hmmm… hmmm! Well—”

“Great Scott, W’itcher, what’s all this a pesterin’ a woman about takin’ a fool picture mean, anyways?” cut in one of the younger element who had probably had a sudden touch of chivalry.

But before Bemis could answer — or before Chet and Boyce could get going on some bright repartee it was apparent they had been on the verge of commencing — Jeff Moseby clattered noisily up in the flivver and came to a grinding halt.

III

The folk of Noel’s Landing still talk — oh, and they undoubtedly will for a long time — about that hectic photographic spree on which Bemis went.

They say that he used up precisely four packs of film, again having to call on Jeff Moseby to take the flivver and go down to Del’s store at the Landing.

He took numerous views, from every possible angle, of the one remaining wall of the barn, although nobody could fathom what sort of news value this jagged, charred thing could have; he insisted, too, on getting various exposures of the house itself, always snapping them from the ruins of the fire.

Indeed, he even went to the length of carefully procuring a negative of the trodden path that led from the dwelling to the barn — and when twitted about the why of this it was the only question he deigned to answer:

“Shucks, boys,” he said aggrievedly, “ain’t y’ seen in them picture pages ’n the papers, sometimes, a’ arrow pointin’ down mebbe t’ a path, ’n’ havin’ ’xplainin’ words like — aw, like: ‘This Here Path ’S the One Took by the Crim’nal W’en He—’ ”

The sheriff, however, broke off — broke off and looked apologetically at Augustus Borden.

“I… I mean, Borden, I — shucks, you know w’ot I mean, I guess, Borden. Heap livelier place, Hallowell were. Seen more papers w’en y’ was there, I cal’late. You know how they put them… them — I guess w’ot y’ call them captions under noos pictures. I… yessir, I got t’ git me every pos’ble view them fellers might want!”

Without waiting for an answer, he had gone back to more clicking of the camera, nor did he leave the premises until he had used up the very last exposure on his very last roll of film.

He refused to pay any more attention whatsoever to the quizzing his audience gave him — refused, even; to defend himself against the jibes of Chet and Boyce — but when he drove up to Del Noel’s general store and post office at the Landing he found it impossible to escape.

Del, being his oldest and best friend in the world, simply insisted on getting the sheriff up to the living quarters above the store and putting matters plainly to him.

“Lookit here, W’itcher — lookit here. I been gittin’ the durndest talk ’bout y’r actions ’n’ words, up t’ the Borden fire, I ever heered tell.

“W’ot ’n tarnation y’ tryin’t’ do, anyways? I don’t mean this comes fr’m jest Chet ’n’ Boyce, neither — I mean Jeff ’n’ Walt ’n’ a couple other o’ the boys has went ’n’ mentioned it.

“Say y’ hinted like y’ thought they were suthin’ queer ’bout that fire; says y’ achally went ’n’ dumned near accused Gus Borden o’ havin’ committed ar… ar — what they call arson, ain’t it, a settin’ his own place up ’n flames? I… Judas Priest, W’itcher, that’s cussed serious business!”

Mr. Bemis looked solemn. He blinked, and then his eyes went very wide as he nursed his nether lip.

“Blamed right it’s serious business t’ go ’n’ accuse a man o’ arson, Del. But, shucks… shuckes, Del — w’ot y’ talkin’ ’bout. I didn’ say nuthin’ like that; I didn’—”

“Dammit, W’itcher,” cut in his old crony testily, “y’ might not ’a’ said it ’n so many words, but y’ — aw, y’ sure more’n hinted it ’n that way y’ got o’ sayin’ things. Like… like askin’ their p’rmission t’ take some photys — ’n’ a tellin’ ’bout that caption under pictures o’ Here’s W’ere the Criminal Walked — ’n’—”

“Gosh… gosh!”

The sheriff of Noel’s Landing put so much vim into the words, so much utter surprise, that it caused the postmaster, it appeared, to almost feel that he was on the wrong track:

“W’y… w’y,” went on Bemis, looking like a hurt child, “y’ ain’t… y’ ain’t ’n-timatin’ I… I had me w’ot they term ulterior motives’n takin’ them pictures, are y’? I — lawsy, Del, cussed’f I ain’t the mos’ wrong on-derstood feller I ever knowed! Judas Priest, but can’t I snap me a couple o’ snapshots ’thout folks thinkin’ I got suthin’ up m’ sleeve?”

Mr. Noel, for an instant — oh, for the barest fraction of a second, explicitly — seemed as if he were practically convinced; immediately, however, the experience of many long years came along and got the better of him.

“No, sir. No, sirree, Bob,” he vigorously shook his head, “I ain’t aimin’ t’ be tricked this time, Mr. W’itcher Bemis. I know me’n’ Jeff’n’ Walt ’n’ some o’ the boys has stood with y’ f’r years, but cussed ’f y’ ain’t a mighty hard trial sometimes.

“Gittin’ harder ’n’ harder t’ git votes ag’in’ that dummed Ned Hutchins, it be, with all the fellers he’s got workin’ f’r him, ’n’ w’en y’ act this way like y’re a tryin’t’ find a crime w’ere no crime be, it — well, it sure don’t do y’ no good ’roun’ ’lection. ’F y’ can’t think o’ y’rself, y’ might try t’ think o’ the party!”

He paused and looked exceedingly righteous and loyal and dignified, did the honest Del — but Bemis shook his head and uttered a most lugubrious sigh.

“Trouble with bein’ a good dee-tective, that is. Every one allus thinks a body can’t do nuthin’ else but think o’ solvin’ crimes ’n’ all sech things.

“Lawsy, tried t’ git me some pictures, I was, t’ sell t’ them daily events sheets ’n the noospapers. Hankerin’ t’ pick me up ’nough money, I were, t’ buy me p’r-’aps mebbe that there early Bermuda stamp t’ c’mplete a’ issue, ’r else—”

“Dammit, W’itcher,” the other spat out in exasperation, “I won’t stand f’r none o’ this hedgin’ ’n’ hedgin’. I’m a sayin’ y’re hurtin’ y’rself ’n’ y’re hurtin’ the party. They wa’n’t no call f’r t’ act that funny way up there, jest t’ be smart.

“Poor Gus Borden may be a newcomer t’ these parts, managin’ t’ sort o’ struggle ’long — but folks don’t like t’ see a man hit w’en he’s down, ’specially w’en they ain’t no reason f’r t’ go ’n’—

“Who said they wa’n’t no reason?” asked Bemis quietly, rubbing at his lip as he gazed up at the ceiling with that aimless, wandering stare he so frequently assumed.

“Y’… y’ mean y’ know suthin’ ’bout that fire?” Del Noel got out hoarsely.

His old friend came down to earth, although a trifle slowly. His face clouded with annoyance, but then this expression was immediately followed by one of good-natured, beaming whimsicality.

“Sakes alive, Del, w’ot d’ y’ mean ’bout a fire?” he chuckled heartily. “Shucks, I meaned they was a reason f’r m’ takin’ them pictures, I did.

“You ’member that noospaper feller was here fr’m Boston f’r the salmon fishin’ last spring — God… Goddard, yeah, that were his name. Well, he tol’ me any time I seen anythin’ int’restin’ t’ snap it ’n’ let him have it. Well, strikes me that fire ’ud make a good ’un.

“Farmer’s Bam Striked by Lightnin’ Razed t’ the Groun’ — ’r suthin’ like that. Anyways, I’d be thankful t’ git me ’nough f’r that Bermuda stamp, ’r that Internal Revenue, p’r’aps mebbe a Turks Island I—”

“Aw, gosh, W’itcher, stop that nonsense ’n’—”

“Nonsense? Sh’u’d say it be nonsense — the way all you fellers a pester ’n’ a pester a body. Judas Priest, do I go me troutin’ some’un allus has t’ up ’n’ c’mplain, ’n’ w’en I traipse me out f’r birdin’, gosh knows, it’s even wuss, ’n’ now w’en I try t’ git me int’rested ’n pictures y—”

He hesitated for a moment, his round face with his big china blue eyes looking almost pathetic:

“Gosh, trout season’s over, ain’t it? Bird season ain’t here yet, be it? Damn this middle o’ September time, anyways — ain’t not a thing f’r a feller t’ do. ’N’ w’en I try t’ pick me up a new hobby — a hobby that might be w’ot they term lu — lucrative, too, y’ begin t’ pick ’n me ’n’—”

But what’s the use? When the sheriff of Noel’s Landing did not desire to lay bare his soul, as the phrase has it, no living human being could make him do it. He talked on about troutin’ ’n’ birdin’, ’n’ philat’ly ’n’ photography, until poor Del himself was forced to beat a retreat down to the store.

IV

If Whitcher Bemis occasionally drove his stanchest friends and firmest political adherents nearly mad, it is likewise true that he not infrequently exercised this same deplorable effect on various other people with whom he came in contact.

In this case, specifically, it seemed as if Myra and Augustus Borden were to be what is quite universally known as the goats.

He was back at their place, again surveying the ruins of the old barn, shortly after sunup the next morning — at just about the same hour, to be exact, when he had taken the pictures on the previous day.

He wanted, he rather sheepishly confessed, to see if in the excitement of the fire he had failed to take his snapshots from the best possible angles.

Mighty careful he intended to be, he confided to both Myra and Augustus Borden, about all little details — all minute details, p’r’aps mebbe he should say.

Yep, now that he was thinking of taking up this picture business for the papers he wasn’t going to let no mistake trip him up. Glad he’d come back, he was. See, he did, where he’d forgot a view he’d ought to of took yesterday.

There was, oddly and happily enough for all, a decided change in the attitude of the folks from Hallowell — or a decided change, it would be better to say, in Gus himself.

Myra seemed the same patient, tired-faced, hurt-eyed woman as always — more so, perhaps — who always looked to her husband for initiative; Borden, however, had lost some of his sullenness and belligerency, actually conveying the impression that he was glad to have Whitcher about.

Certainly, at least, he put himself out to be agreeable, even going to the trouble of insisting that the sheriff come inside and have some coffee when Bemis had merely gone to the kitchen door and asked for a tumbler of water. Yes, he positively smiled a few times, did Borden, and when Bemis left the property the two appeared to be quite friendly.

Mr. Bemis indeed, was so friendly that he dropped around to the Borden farm again the very next a.m. He did not, this time, come alone, but brought along a keen-faced, keen-eyed man whose city clothes stamped him as not being a native.

Gus, Mrs. Borden hastened to tell them, was not at home; he was, at the moment, off helping a neighbor mend some rail fence a few miles up the road.

“Yeah, I knowed that,” Whitcher gravely nodded, his eyes wide and solemn. “Jest wanted t’ show m’ fr’en’ that there burned barn ’n’ that there path leadin’ t’ it fr’m the house. Y’… y’ know, them same spots w’ere I took me them pictures!”

They idled around, after that, for a good thirty or forty minutes, Whitcher seeming to take a ridiculous sort of interest among the charred pieces of timber that lay scattered about the one portion of wall that was still standing.

He explained this to Mrs. Borden as he was about to leave, although he certainly appeared to be rather ill at ease.

“I… well, I got me a sort o’ hobby, I have,” he said, with much flushing, as he stood in her doorway, and held out his blackened hands with a sheepish laugh. “Like t’ c’lect me ol’ hinges ’n’ pieces o’ iron, the way y’ mebbe heered some o’ them antique bugs do.

“I… shucks, p’r’aps y’ think me sort o’ crazy, but I ’membered that this were a-built ’long time ago, ’n’ that they might be some o’ them hinges—”

He broke off voluntarily, palpably trying to change the subject with a chuckle:

“Say, got a mite o’ kerosene, Mis’ Borden? Han’s be a sight. Like t’ wash ’em off!”

She looked vague and blank, did Myra Borden — vague and blank and yet dazedly worried. Although she had nothing about her throat, her hand went there with the same sort of frightened gesture she had used on the first morning when pulling her wrapper about her. She shook her head negatively, and her voice came after a little gulp:

“No… no, I got gasoline, though, sheriff. Or soap an’ hot water, if you’ll step insi—”

“No kerosene, huh?” Bemis interrupted in a monotonous drawl. “No… no, thanks, Mis’ Borden. On’y like kerosene t’ wash up m’ han’s with w’en I git ’em blacked with burned wood. Thanks… thanks. G’-by!”

“G-good-by, sheriff,” answered the woman, although her voice was a trifle hoarse and her fingers, this time, dug into her throat almost convulsively.

But, when the sheriff of Noel’s Landing had covered about half the distance to his waiting flivver, he suddenly stopped. He and his companion, then, seemed to go into some deep discussion, during which there was much pointing at the barn, at the house itself, even at the path between the two spots.

Finally they must have reached some decision, for they walked back to the dwelling.

“Say, Mis’ Borden,” said Bemis slowly, “tell y’r husban’ w’en he gits back, will y’, that I sh’u’d have me them films back fr’m East Chat’am by to-morrer, all developed ’n’ printed. Tell him — well, tell him I’ll be ’roun’t’ see him with ’em, will y’, ma’am?”

“Ye—”

This tired-faced, hurt-eyed woman, however, couldn’t even complete that single affirmative; she could, only, sink her fingers deeper into her throat and jerkily nod her head.

The keen-eyed man in the city clothes, at that, spoke for the first time. His voice was crisp:

“Very good. Tell Mr. Borden that I’ll be along with Mr. Bemis, too. My name’s Graham — Graham, adjuster for the East Chatham Mutual Insurance Company. Liked to have seen him to-day, but I haven’t the time to wait.

“Still, I’d prefer to see those photographs first, to make sure, although I don’t think there’s any doubt about—”

A kick on the ankle from the sheriff, which was plainly visible to Myra Borden, made him wince and catch his breath. He glared at Whitcher for an instant, but then he turned back to the woman:

“I mean that I don’t think there will be any difficulty about… hmmm, any difficulty about the adjustment, I should have said. Tell Mr. Borden to surely be here, please. Good day, madam!”

She couldn’t even nod her head, now, as Graham and the sheriff walked away.

V

Mr. Bemis had to take a lot more punishment, that Indian summery A.M. That is, it might have been painful to almost any one else, but it slid off the sheriff’s back as water is professed to do from that part of the duck.

It was the women of Noel’s Landing, on this occasion, who got after him. It was, they claimed, a right mean shame for a grown man — although sometimes they didn’t think him grown, a few spitefully averred — to pick on a lone female who was having troubles enough of her own to make both ends meet.

He seemed to forget, they hinted, that women to-day meant something in the vote. It was all right, they stated, to let him go ahead with his fishing and hunting and pesky stamp collecting — they weren’t as fool particular as some of the men folks — but when it came to bothering a woman who was already worried enough, just to fake a few pictures, it was going too far.

Ned Hutchins, they intimated with raised eyebrows, wouldn’t most probably do such things if he were in office. And… well, and it looked as if maybe he were going to be in office, next election.

But Bemis, even with the ladies, had the same answer — more or less — that he had had for the men:

Shucks, he wa’n’t alius thinkin’ o’ votes, he wa’n’t, like mos’ folk seemed t’ think. Judas Priest, no, let Ned Hutchins ponder on them things. W’y, he couldn’t trout now, could he? Wa’n’t no birdin’t’ be did, jest yet, were they?

’N’ these here pictures — well, these here pictures, he were a-hopin’, might ‘low him t’ go ’n’ git hisself some stamps that ’ud enable him t’ git back t’ the peaceful pursuit o’ philat’ly. Shucks… shucks. W’y was they alius a-thinkin’ o’ votes?

Along toward noon, although his amiable face gave no hint of it, he really must have become a trifle fatigued with all this pestering and pestering. Anyway, for one of the very few times in his life he avoided passing the store at the Landing, taking a much longer and roundabout way to flivver to his home on the east shore of Cranberry Lake.

He sat down with a huge sigh of contentment, in his cozy kitchen and living room combined, and dragged the beloved album in which he so neatly kept his cherished collection of stamps.

“Allus soothe a feller’s nerves, y’ do,” he said, perhaps speaking aloud unconsciously as men who have dwelt much alone have the habit of occasionally doing.

For an hour — or a trifle over, rather — the sheriff of Noel’s Landing literally lost himself in the joys of his collection. He gazed at certain rare specimens almost lovingly, in some cases actually rubbing his pudgy fingers over the surfaces with tender affection.

Longingly, too, he would look at various blank spaces on some pages, his face plainly telling that he was wishing he had the wherewithal to purchase the bits of paper that would fill them in.

But, as the clock over the mantel struck one thirty, he closed up his album with a little sigh and carefully replaced it in his desk.

“Sh’u’d ought t’ be ’long ’bout now,” he mused aloud, a slight frown on his brow as he ruminatively rubbed at his ponderously hanging lip that also seemed to so consistently soothe him.

She was. She was, that is, if he had meant Myra Borden. She came in without knocking at the door, did this tired-faced woman from down Hallowell way — came in with a rush, with an hysterical little gasp, with a purplish-red bruise, that had not been there in the morning, showing on a wan cheek.

“Didn’ think he’d go s’ fur ’s t’ strike y’.” said Whitcher, his face softening with pity as he rose to take her arm and assist her to a chair. “Hit y’ w’en y’ kept on insistin’ he sh’u’d ought t’ go ’n’ c’nfess, didn’ he?”

“Oh… oh! He hit me so hard! He knocked me down an’ I thought he was goin’ to kill—”

“There, there. Sot down ’n’ rest ’n’ take a mite o’ this,” he said, pouring a tumbler of cool, sweet cider from an earthen pitcher.

She drank it gratefully, and then she rambled out her story — rambled out the story that Bemis had known would not be a particularly pleasant one:

It was not the first beating she had had, she assured him. She had suffered many, many of them during all of the more than twenty years they had been married. She had got most of them, too, for just the same reason she had got this blow to-day.

He was always trying something dishonest, and she was always trying to dissuade him from doing it. This — well, this was only the third time he had set a place on fire, but there were so many other tricks he had done.

He had stolen from stores where he had occasionally worked; he had slyly cheated in every deal into which he had ever entered; he had even descended to breaking into the homes of neighbors, once in awhile, and pilfering such petty things as food.

He had… oh, he had done so much, so much, all through the years, and she came of an honest and upright and God-fearing family, she did, and it nearly killed her to think of it all — had nearly driven her crazy with worry all through those terrible years.

It was too much for her, this time. She knew that Mr. Bemis knew; she hadn’t been fooled by his taking those pictures; she had been certain from the beginning that the Mr. Graham who had called that morning had been some man from the insurance company.

She could see that Augustus at last had jail staring him in the face, and she didn’t want Mr. Bemis or any of the other kind neighbors to think that she had had anything to do with it.

She didn’t care what became of her — she didn’t know, God help her, what was going to become of her — but she’d just come to the end with all this dishonesty, with all those beatings, with… with—

Whitcher Bemis let her go on and on until she had hysterically sobbed herself into a state of exhaustion. Then, with genuinely moist eyes and gentle voice, he promised her that he would see that she found some pleasant means of occupation where life would be kinder to her.

VI

The sheriff of Noel’s Landing kept his word to Myra Borden — and in doing so, ironically, he temporarily annoyed various and sundry of his adherents. He would not divulge how he had first become suspicious of Gus Borden, in fact, until he had found the wife of the man who was now in the East Chatham jail a congenial position as housekeeper to an aged and comfortably fixed couple. And when he finally did spill his story, he… well, politics is politics, after all, as has been so constantly declaimed by so many humans.

He chose a Wednesday evening chicken supper down at the Landing church, where he knew beyond the vestige of a doubt every woman for miles around would be in attendance.

“Cal’late I got a lot o’ you ladies right — oh, sort o’ right down ’n me f’r a spell, didn’ I?” he asked genially as they started to remove the dishes.

“Awful sorry, I were, but I couldn’t help it. A ne’ssary evil, y’ might call it, ’n order t’ do ult’mate good. Do ult’mate good f’r one o’ what some fellers still designates ’s the gentler sex, too, at that!”

Mr. Bemis paused, for a moment, paused and beamed at his audience and winked one eye slowly. It drew a laugh, this did — drew it, mostly, from precisely those from whom he desired it most. The ladies.

“Yep,” he went on, “I reckon I might ’a’ seemed a mite hard ’n Myra Borden, but I knowed it were the on’y thing t’ do so’s t’ git her t’ up ’n’ c’nfess ’n’ furnish the rest o’ the ev’dence I needed t’ go with m’ own b’liefs.

“Be f’r her ult’mate good, like I said, though I guess she must ’a’ suffered some w’en I were a takin’ them pictures, ’n’ a askin’ fool questions, ’n’ a mentionin’ that kerosene ’n’ — aw, ’n’ three-four more things ’r so. Reckon — reckon she’s purty nigh more conten’ed now ’an she has been ’n years, hey?”

“Thanks to you she is, Whitcher,” came in Mrs. Eli Price strongly, with the decisive tone she used when addressing a meeting of the Ladies Aid Society.

“Thanks… thanks!”

The, sheriff of Noel’s Landing received and acknowledged the compliment with becoming blushes.

“Yep, it seemed the on’y thing t’ do,” he continued, “ ’specially after I’d made me ’nquiries, the day o’ the fire, ’n’ went ’n’ discovered me the life he’d led her down t’ Hallowell.

“Yep, I sure figgered that poor woman ’ud crack under the strain, sort o’, like y’ might put it, w’en she realized that her Gus were a facin’ jail at last. I—”

“But how did you know — we mean how did you first come to suspect anything about him setting the fire himself?”

It was not a male who asked this question; it was, instead, a rather excited young girl — a girl who wouldn’t reach the voting age, possibly, for another couple of years.

Whitcher Bemis allowed his thumb and index finger to go to his great lip, and he pulled it out and let it go back softly. He spoke with a certain tender reminiscence:

“One o’ y’r gentler sex, agin, comes t’ be sort o’ responsible. Had a grammy once, I did, w’en I were a little shaver. She had one o’ these here axioms — one o’ them proverbs — she usta keep a sayin’ ’n’ a sayin’ t’ me: ‘W’itcher,’ she say, ‘allus remember t’ give a minute regard t’ detail with a’ apparent absence o’ zeal!’ ”

He hesitated for the mere fraction of a second, coughing slightly, brushing a hand across his eyes.

“Ain’t never went ’n’ f’rgot them words, I ain’t, ’n’ w’en I see a couple o’ bits o’ excelsior ’n the path leadin’ fr’m Borden’s house t’ his barn, that mornin’ o’ the fire, suthin’ come t’ me that ’ud been puzzlin’ me a heap — suthin’ I’d stored me up ’n w’ot I term m’ card cat’logue brain.

“It was that one day ’bout a week back, y’ see, I’d meeted Borden ’n the road, ’n’ they was a strong smell o’ kerosene comin’ from his truck. Glanced ’nside w’en he went past, I did, ’n’ see two five-gallon cans o’ the stuff. Well, I thinks, w’ot ’n all sin does a man that burns wood f’r cookin’ ’n’ gasoline f’r lightin’ his lamps want with ten gallons o’ kerosene?”

Bemis, again, hesitated for a mere flash of a second in order to allow an admiring gasp to go through the crowd — and then he went on with a hearty chuckle:

“Yessir, I sure got t’ han’ it t’ the ladies, ain’t I every way? Judas Priest, yep, ’f it hadn’ been f’r m’ grammy, ’n’ thinkin’ o’ that proverb, I’d never ’a’ foun’ me out a thing ’bout there bein’ not a drop o’ kerosene ’n the house right after the fire!”

Briefly, the applause that came made it a darn good bet that Ned Hutchins wouldn’t get a single female vote from Noel’s Landing, at least, when election came around.