Thornycroft on the street, lookin' for us. He was awful excited. He had
been to Mr. Kirby's house, an' found out Mr. Kirby was in town, an'
followed us. He wanted a warrant swore out right there. Mr. Kirby tried
to argue with him, but it warn't no use. So at last Mr. Kirby turned to
me. 'You go on back, Bob,' he said. 'This'll give me some more lookin'
up to do. Tell my wife I'll just spend the night with Judge Fowler, an'
git back in time for court in Belcher's sto' in the mornin'. An', Bob,
you just stop by Mrs. Allen's--she's guardian of the boy--an' tell her I
say to bring him to Belcher's sto' to-morrow mornin' at nine. You be
there, too, Mr. Thornycroft--an,' by the way, bring that block of wood
you been talkin' about."

That was all the squire had said, declared the rural policeman. No, he
hadn't sent any other message--just said he would read up on the case.
The rural policeman went out and closed the door behind him. It had been
informal, hap-hazard, like the life of the community in which they
lived. But, for all that, the law had knocked at the door of the Widow
Allen, and left a white-faced mother and a bewildered boy behind.

They tried to resume their usual employments. Mrs. Allen sat down beside
the table, picked up her sewing and put her glasses on, but her hands
trembled when she tried to thread the needle. Davy sat on a split-bottom
chair in the corner, his feet up on the rungs, and tried to be still;
but his heart was pounding fast and there was a lump in his throat.
Presently he got up and went out of doors, to get in some kindling on
the back porch before it snowed, he told his mother. But he went because
he couldn't sit there any longer, because he was about to explode with
rage and grief and fear and bitterness.

He did not go toward the woodpile--what difference did dry kindling make