"No! you don't tell me. What's the mischief?"
"Well, it's easy enough to tell what the mischief is, but where it is, is the poser; but there's a good many in Trafton that wouldn't believe you if you told them there was no such thing as an organized gang of marauders near the place."
"An organized gang!"
"Yes, sir."
"But, good Lord, that's pretty strong for Trafton. Do you believe it?"
"Rather," with Yankee dryness.
"Well, I'm blessed! Come, old man, tell us some of the particulars. What makes you suspect blacklegs about that little town?"
"I've figured the thing down pretty close, and I've had reason to. The thing has been going on for a number of years, and I've been a loser, and ever since the beginning it has moved like clock-work. Five years ago a horse thief had not been heard of in Trafton for Lord knows how long, until one night Judge Barnes lost a valuable span, taken from his stable, slick and clean, and never heard of afterwards. Since then, from the town and country, say for twenty-five miles around, they have averaged over twenty horses every year, and they are always the very best; picked every time, no guess work."
The companion listener gave a long, shrill whistle, and I, supposed by them to be asleep, became very wide awake and attentive.