“You have no right dropping into my yard!” shouted the farmer, wrathfully. “It’s trespassing.”
“That’s right,” drawled the biggest of his sons. “I’m a deputy of the sheriff in this county. You have violated the law. I shall have to take you to Millville to court to answer in an action of wilful trespass.”
“Yes, and I shall insist that you be held in a civil suit for damages,” declared another of the sons.
Young Pierce cast a hopeless look at his machine and anxiously at Dave. The latter took in the situation at a glance.
“See here, mister,” he said to the old farmer; “we are desperately sorry that this has happened.”
“Yah!” sneered the shrewd old schemer—“money talks.”
“How much?” demanded our hero, without hesitation.
“Well, them bees is a special brood. The hives and the fence ain’t much, but there’s old Snorter. He may wander away and get lost; he may fall into some of those lime pits beyond the timber and get hurt. Then again, he’s so frightened he’ll probably run away at the least scare after this. One hundred dollars, I told this young man here.”
“But I haven’t got it,” cried Pierce. “I offered to give you an order on Washington, and you won’t take it.”
“Not I,” retorted the hard-fisted old fellow. “Cash down on the nail head.”