“Tobe Gryce, ye air fairly demented,” exclaimed the register—a chin-whiskered, grizzled old fellow, sitting on a stump and hugging his knee with a desolate, bereaved look—“talkin' 'bout the stray-book, an' all the records gone! What will folks do 'bout thar deeds, an' mortgages, an' sech? An' that thar keerful index ez I had made—ez straight ez a string—all cinders!”
He shook his head, mourning alike for the party of the first part and the party of the second part, and the vestiges of all that they had agreed together.
“An' ye ter kem mopin' hyar this time o' night arter the stray-book!” said the sheriff. “Shucks!” And he turned aside and spat disdainfully on the ground.
“I want that thar stray-book!” cried Gryce, indignantly. “Ain't nobody seen it?” Then realizing the futility of the question, he yielded to a fresh burst of anger, and turned upon the bereaved register. “An' did ye jes set thar an' say, 'Good Mister Fire, don't burn the records; what 'll folks do 'bout thar deeds an' sech?' an' hold them claws o' yourn, an' see the court-house burn up, with that thar stray-book in it?”
Half a dozen men spoke up. “The fire tuk inside, an' the court-house war haffen gone 'fore 'twar seen,” said one, in sulky extenuation.
“Leave Tobe be—let him jaw!” said another, cavalierly.
“Tobe 'pears ter be sp'ilin' fur a fight,” said a third, impersonally, as if to direct the attention of any belligerent in the group to the opportunity.
The register had an expression of slow cunning as he cast a glance up at the overbearing ranger.
“What ailed the stray-book ter bide hyar in the court-house all night, Tobe? Couldn't ye gin it house-room? Thar warn't no special need fur it to be hyar.”
Tobe Gryce's face showed that for once he was at a loss. He glowered down at the register and said nothing.