Blackstock stuck the revolver back into his belt with a grin.
"Glad ye've come back to yer senses, boys," said he, perceiving that the crisis was over. "But keep an eye on Hawker for a bit yet. Seems to 'ave gone clean off his head."
"Don't fret, Tug. We'll look after him," agreed several of his comrades from the mill, laying firmly persuasive hands upon the excited man, who cursed them for cowards till they began to chaff him roughly.
"What's makin' you so sore, Sam?" demanded one. "Did the book agent try to make up to Sis Hopkins?"
"No, it's Tug that Sis is making eyes at now," suggested another. "That's what's puttin' Sam so off his nut."
"Leave the lady's name out of it, boys," interrupted Blackstock, in a tone that carried conviction.
"Quit that jaw now, Sam," interposed another, changing the subject, "an' tell us what ye've done with that fancy belt o' yourn 'at ye're so proud of. We hain't never seen ye without it afore."
"That's so," chimed in the constable. "That accounts for his foolishness. Sam ain't himself without that fancy belt."
Hawker stopped his cursing and pulled himself together with an effort, as if only now realizing that his followers had gone over completely to the side of the law and Tug Blackstock.
"Busted the buckle," he explained quickly. "Mend it when I git time."