"Not on another's," my father objected mildly. "One of my own, Mr.
Penfield. The experience you have outlined so lucidly convinced me that
it was better to stick closely to my own affairs."

"Mr. Shelton," Mr. Penfield went on, regardless of the interruption, "we
warned you yesterday to leave the town before nightfall, and you have
failed to take our advice."

"I see no reason why I should leave," replied my father easily. "I am
comfortable here for the moment. I would not be outside. Even the
arguments you have given are specious. You got your furs back, and if I
recall, they proved to be so badly moth eaten that they were not fit for
any trade."

"Even though you see no reason," said Major Proctor smoothly, "you are
going to leave, Shelton. You are going to leave in one hour. If you
delay a minute later, we will come with friends who will know how to
handle you. We will come in an hour with a tar pot and a feather
mattress."

"You are not only unwelcome to us on account of your past," said Mr.
Penfield, "but more recent developments make it impossible, quite
impossible for you to stay. We have heard your story already from Mr.
Jason Hill. You are right that it is no concern of ours, except that we
remember the good of this town. We have a business with France, and we
cannot afford to lose it. Major Proctor was blunt just now, and yet he is
right. Give us credit for warning you, at least. You will go, of course?"

My father smiled again, and smoothed the wrinkles of his coat. For
some reason the scene seemed vastly pleasant. He shrugged his