"Yer trunk, young man?" asked Mr. Hart of Jim.
"It is one of them," replied Jim, producing a folded paper from a pocket and handing it to the hairy official. "Here is a list."
The sheriff read the list aloud, slowly.
"Hell!" he exclaimed, in a voice of wondering admiration.
"I'll have no cussin' in this house!" cried Hammond.
"Where'd ye leave it all?" inquired Hart, eyeing Jim.
"Every article of it in this house, except my shotgun and what I'm wearing," replied Jim. "Two or three boxes are in the outer kitchen and all the rest of the stuff is in my bedroom."
Amos Hammond led the way to the outer kitchen. No boxes were there. He led the way to Jim's bedroom. It, too, was empty.
"Search the house, if ye want to," sneered Hammond.
"I've had enough of this tomfoolery," said Jim. "I've given you a chance to hand over my things, and you haven't done it. You have overreached yourself this time. But for your wife and family, I would have filled you with partridge-shot last night. I had a gun in my hands, too. And but for these same unfortunate persons, I would send you to jail now. I brought my stuff to Covered Bridge as freight, and here are my vouchers, and the freight agent at Covered Bridge has another set of them, and he is a witness that the things were loaded on to your wagon, and every member of your family is a witness that they were unloaded in this house, and were still here when I was last in the house. Very crude! Last night's fit was too much for you. I'm afraid that you are off your head permanently. I'll overlook last night's attempted murder and to-day's attempted robbery—but, sane or mad, the next time you try anything on me will be the last time!"