"You are doubtless a sheriff, sir," observed Butler, patiently.
"No," said Mount; "no, not exactly what you could call a sheriff, Captain Butler; but I have had much business with sheriffs. I owe them more than I can ever repay," he added, sentimentally.
"Then you will understand, sir, the necessity of aiding the law," suggested Butler, holding out his hand for the warrant.
But Mount quietly pocketed the paper and began to whistle and reprime his rifle.
"May I trouble you for that paper?" asked Butler, with his chilling, sinister politeness.
There was a pause. Butler's eyes stole around the camp-fire, but only the little Hebrew was now visible, for I lay in the shadow and the Weasel had ominously vanished.
"You do not mean to retain this warrant, sir?" demanded Butler, raising his sneering voice, and searching the thickets for some sign of the ambushed Weasel.
"Oh, Captain Butler," said Mount, with a gigantic simper, "how can I resist you? Pray tell me who this bad young Michael Cardigan may be, and what he has done to get his name on this valentine?"
"It is a matter of treason," retorted Butler, sharply. "Come, my good man, have done with silly chatter and aid me to my duty in the King's name!"
Mount burst into a shout of laughter. "That's it! In the King's name! I've heard that, too,—oh yes, I've heard that o' moonlight nights!"