"My stock is running pretty low," said the dealer, wrapping up the paste-board box. "I've sold more lately than I ever sold in any one season before, and yet there's no game in the market."
The Major whistled. "Who has been buying them?" he asked.
"Come to think of it I have sold the most to a Frenchman named Larnage—lives over on the Potter place, I believe. And that reminds me that I'll have a new lot in to-day, ordered for him."
"Do you know anything about that fellow?" the Major asked.
"Not very much."
"Well, don't let him have another cartridge. Keep all you get. We'll need them to protect life and property."
"What! I don't understand."
"I haven't time to explain now, for I'm reminded that I must go at once to the telegraph office. Come over to the court-house."
The Major sent a dispatch to the governor and then went to the county clerk's office where he found the hardware dealer and a number of men waiting for him. The report that he was charged with serious news was already spread about; and when he entered, the clerk of the county court, an old fellow with an ink-blot on his bald head, came forward with an inquiry as to what had been meant when the Major spoke of the cartridges. The Major explained his cause for alarm. Then followed a brief silence, and then the old fellow who kept the records of the frosts and the clock, spoke up with the assertion that for some time he had expected it. "Billy," he said, speaking to the clerk, "I told you the other day that we were going to have trouble mighty soon. Don't you recollect?"