Brickett was now unheading a barrel, and the clamour made the Squire pound his table with a boyish and futile rage. Every noise jarred on him and the sun didn’t shine in at the windows any longer.
There was no doubt about his duty. The note must be shown to the selectmen. He picked it up, put it into his pocketbook, hesitated at the door, then hastily went back to the safe, tucked it into the most remote pigeon-hole, slammed the safe door and whirled the lock knob vigorously.
“No, sir,” he muttered as he went down the stairs, “this isn’t a thing to prick with a crowbar. It needs a fine needle. There’s a woman to be considered first, and, by the gods! there’s no steer-team of selectmen going to walk over her to get to her father—no matter how the land lies.”
He stopped at the foot of the stairs and looked back at his office door with a singular air of apprehension, as though he had left there some ugly and hideous object.
“No, it can’t be.” He stamped his foot upon the turf. “It isn’t the Willard stripe to do a thing like that. He’s a hog, but not a thief. I guess I’ll go and sit under the old poplars and think about it a bit.”
As he walked along the street he remembered what Badger had said about his brother Hiram’s activity in the matter of that town note.