from his face, and turning to me said,

"Harry will have his little fun, you see."

[Illustration: THE SHERIFF IS MAD]

"He is a somewhat exuberant humorist," I replied. "What was the object
of the joke?"

"Well, he's going to sell his furniture at auction, and I promised to
notice the fact in to-day's _Patriot_, but I forgot it, and he called
to remind me of it."

"Do all of your friends refresh your memory in that vivid manner? If
I'd been in your place, I'd have knocked him down."

"No, you wouldn't," said Slott--"no, you wouldn't. Harry is the
sheriff, and he controls two thousand dollars' worth of official
advertising. I'd sooner he'd kick me from here to Borneo and back
again than to take that advertising away from the _Patriot_. What are
a few bumps and a sore shin or two compared with all that fatness? No,
sir; he can have all the fun he wants out of me."

The next visitor was less demonstrative. He was tall and slender and
clad in the habiliments of woe. He entered the office and took a
chair. Removing his hat, he wiped the moisture from his eyes, rubbed
his nose thoughtfully for a moment, put his handkerchief in his hat,
his hat upon the floor, and said,

"You didn't know Mrs. Smith?"