At Miller's place there was not a sign of life. "I'll wager that brute is applying raw beef to his eyes this morning," muttered Tom, somewhat vindictively.
Prescott's watchful glance soon discovered a provision store that looked more than usually promising. At a word from him Tom reined in the horse, while Prescott and Darrin went inside to make purchases.
When they came out they found Farmer Hartshorn and another man talking with Tom Reade.
"You young men of Gridley don't look any the worse, this morning, for the excitement you had last night," said Mr. Hartshorn, after a cordial greeting. "Reade tells me that you left the milk-pail at my house as you came along."
"Yes, sir," Dick nodded. "And with it, we left our very best thanks for the fine treat that milk proved to be to us."
"Prescott, shake hands with Mr. Stark. He's our leading lawyer in this little place."
"I've heard a good deal about you this morning," said the lawyer, as he shook hands.
Mr. Stark was a tall, thin man, of perhaps forty-five years of age. Warm as was the day he was attired wholly in black, a bit rusty, and wore a high silk hat that was beginning to show signs of age. He belonged to a type of rural lawyer that is now passing.
"I think we've heard of you, too," smiled Prescott innocently.
"Have you?" asked the lawyer, looking somewhat astonished.