Wycliff’s family had been sent up to Sprucemont, where they were the guests of their old friends, the Porters. One night, soon after their departure, Wycliff, who had retired, was awakened by a lusty rap at the door.
“Who’s there?� he shouted, throwing up his chamber window.
“Not too loud, John,� came the answer from a suppressed voice.
“That you, Dan? Wait a minute till I let you in.�
“No; I can’t stop. There’s a big game on foot. Jehu Baldwin will fire a revolver through his Uncle David’s bedroom window. Then he will run in the middle of the street to your house, where he will take to the grass and throw the weapon upon your lawn.�
“To-night?�
“Yes; just after midnight. But I must get back.�
Congressman Baldwin was the idol of the masses, and if it could be made to appear that Wycliff had assaulted him there would be a riot, and the victim of its fury would be fortunate if he escaped alive. Frontier methods would not avail at this crisis. Wycliff was somewhat resourceful himself. He got his camera and prepared for a flashlight photograph. He had been writing a magazine article on the whippoorwill—(one of these birds sang in the lilacs every night)—and he had the materials ready for a flashlight of the bird, to illustrate his article. He would now use them to photograph a different object. He set his camera so that it would sweep the highway, and waited under cover of the midnight darkness.
The town clock struck for twelve. A thunder-shower was coming up. There was an occasional flash and roar from the cloud. The whippoorwill sang in the lilacs. There were pistol-shots down the road, and then the sound of running footsteps. They drew nearer until they were directly in front of Wycliff. The flashlight did its work. Wycliff boarded a trolley-car for Elmfield, carrying the precious camera, and leaving this notice on his front door:—
“Gone to visit my old friend,
Sheriff Coggswell, at the Jail.
“JOHN WYCLIFF.�