There were Jared Sparks Grant, his son, his womenfolks, his hired man; Mr. Harnden recognized all of them, of course. He also recognized Deputy-sheriff Wagner Dowd from the shire town. Dowd had a couple of helpers with him. It was plain that the shotgun which had halted Mr. Harnden had been very nigh at hand and ready for use; there was a look about the folks in the dooryard which suggested an armed truce, now prolonged, for the handling of the new arrival.
“Don't you realize what's going on here?” demanded Selectman Grant, his weapon in the hook of his arm.
“No!” asserted Mr. Harnden.
“I know a blamed sight better! You can't look at this deputy sheriff without turning redder than one of the apples in that fake picture book of yours. You know what you have been doing in this town.”
The selectman's tone was offensively harsh and loud. Mr. Harnden was moved to show a little spirit, having been cornered—and feeling protected by the presence of an officer of the law. “I have been doing business!”
“Scooping in town orders, you mean!”
“Taking them in the due course of my business, Mr. Selectman. I had a right to do it!”
“And what did you do with those orders?”
“I passed them on—still in the course of my business.”
“And you don't know into whose hands they have come?”