So, fully satisfied which of these "times" the present chanced to be, the old coachman departed stableward to attend upon his beloved bays and to make ready for his mistress's morning drive.
Meanwhile, on the street of Lower Riverside, Jim Barlow had come to fresh grief. In his frantic chase of the runaway dogs he had almost caught up with Ponce, who suddenly darted into an open doorway of the post-office just as a gentleman emerged from it, carrying a pile of letters and papers just arrived in the early mail. A collision of the three was inevitable, and Ponce was the only one who came out from it intact.
With outstretched arms, believing that he had already captured one of the Great Danes, poor Jim threw himself headlong upon the gentleman, who staggered under the unexpected blow and fell backward upon the floor, with the lad atop. In the ensuing struggle to rise they forgot the dog, the animal rushing out of doors again as swiftly as he had rushed within.
Instantly there was great commotion. The postmaster hurried to the rescue, as did the crowd of other persons awaiting the distribution of the mail; but the assaulted gentleman proved as agile as he was furious and, as he gained his own feet, Jim found himself being shaken till he lost his balance again and went down at the stranger's side.
"You unmannerly lubber! How dare you? I say, how dare you knock me down like that? Set your dog on me, would you? Do you know who I am?"
The lad was slow to anger, but once roused could be as furious as the other. His natural impulse was greater than his knowledge of the world, and his answer was to send a telling blow into the gentleman's face. This was "assault" in truth, and oddly enough seemed to restore the victim to perfect coolness. With a bow he accepted the return of the eyeglasses which had been knocked from his nose during the mêlée and turned to the perturbed postmaster, saying:
"Mr. Spence, where is the nearest justice of the peace?"
"Why—why, Mr. Montaigne, sir, I think he——"
"Simmons is out of town. He and Squire Randall have both gone to Newburgh on that big case, you know," interposed a bystander.
"Sure enough. Well then, Mr. Montaigne, the nearest justice available this morning is Seth Winters, the blacksmith, up-mountain. Right near your own place, sir, you know."