The court adjourned. Day was closing. Victims of the robberies hastened to prove their properties. They must get back to the wagons by milking-time.
The trial was over. Every one was satisfied—except Doby.
"Don't cry," said his father, impatiently this time, to the boy behind him on the homeward-bound horse.
"I want my knife!" wailed Doby.
His father pulled up short. "We have taken up hours of valuable time! We have stopped the making of a State to get it for you! What more do you want?"
"I—want—my—knife!"
"Hav'n't you got your knife?"
"No!"
"Who has it?" demanded his father.