“I’ll prove it with the flat o’ my hand on your ears, ye young rascal!” declared the man, hotly. “You ain’t paid anybody for the right to camp here, have you?”
“Paid anybody? Of course not. Who’d we pay?” demanded Neale, still inclined to stand his ground.
“Shows ye don’t know the law in this town,” said the man, with satisfaction. “I’m a consterble—see?” and he threw back his coat and showed a big, shiny star pinned to his “gallus.” “I got the authority.”
“You’ve got the authority to what?” asked Neale, sourly. “Trying to tree us for a collection, are you? I—guess—not!”
“Oh, Neale,” begged Ruth. “Do come away.”
“The boy is right,” said Mrs. Heard, vigorously. “I believe the man is overstepping his rights. But we don’t want to fight him here. Oh! what is that child about?”
Sammy Pinkney had procured several smooth pebbles of about the size of hen’s eggs, and now approached the contending parties. Tom Jonah, too, stood beside Neale and began to show his remaining fangs.
“What are you going to do with those stones, Sammy Pinkney?” demanded Agnes.
“Goin’ to give some of ’em to Neale if he wants ’em,” declared the youngster, with a grin.
Neale O’Neil laughed at that. “I guess we won’t come to blows, Sammy,” he said. “We’ll just get in the car and have our lunch. This constable can’t keep us from eating on the county road, that is sure. Get out the alcohol lamp, folks, if you want your tea.”