"He desarved it all, Mr. Howard. A fine lad he is; and the best marksman in the State."
"He does handle a rifle fairly well; but I've had him at the axe and plow for some months past," observed the farmer with a laugh.
"Here's my young friend!" exclaimed the giant, as Owen stepped out on the porch and the two shook hands. "See here, youngster," he continued, "I'm sheriff of the county now, and I think I'll arrest you for beating me at the shooting-match."
"And how do you like your new office?" asked Mr. Howard.
"Only tol'ably well, sir. But I reckon I'll get into it later on."
Bertha appeared at the door and with a courtesy invited the gentlemen in to supper. When the meal was over the two men lighted their cob pipes, and, at Mr. Lane's suggestion, strolled out into the woodyard for a private talk. Here they sat for an hour while Mr. Lane explained the object of his visit. He gave the whole history of the whisky cave, told of the arrest of Jerry and Stayford, and finally declared his intention of proceeding to the cave on the following morning, in the hope of arresting Tom the Tinker while the latter was actually engaged in making whisky.
"Now I understand all," said Mr. Howard, when he had listened to the visitor's story; "I knew there was a thief in this part of the country; I suspected the man, but I could never put my finger on any one. Tom the Tinker was certainly a clever man; but all thieves and robbers are caught in the end. His time has now come."
The two men sat in silence for some time, watching the smoke as it curled up from their glowing pipes.
"But Jerry," resumed the farmer in a low, sad voice; "I'm sorry for Jerry. He's been a dear, good friend of us all for these many years. How the young folks will miss him—will miss his fiddle—his jolly call at the dance; still, I see no way to help him now; he's been caught, and must abide by his sentence."
"I found it hard to give him over to the jailer," added Mr. Lane, "but my duty called for it."