Hashknife shoved the valise into the rear of the buggy and helped her into the seat. She started to protest, but Sleepy chirped to the tall, bay horse and they rolled hollowly out of the doorway and headed homeward.
As Hashknife crossed to the horses, the stable-man came from down the street and went into the stable. He had seen the top-buggy going up the street, and he surmized that its owner had returned.
As he turned to go toward the rear he heard a muffled voice calling. He listened closely and decided that it came from the grain-room. He sneaked in and lighted a match. Some one was hammering on the inside of the oat-bin. The stable-man was taking no chances. He went outside, got a lantern, which he hung over the top of the bin, took an old shot-gun from behind the door and flipped the fastener loose from the lid of the bin.
A moment later the lid lifted and Spot Easton, very much disheveled, stood up and blinked foolishly.
“Wh-whatcha doin’ in my oats?” grunted the stable-man hoarsely.
“Aw! —— you and your oats!” groaned Spot, as he crawled painfully over the edge and rubbed his sore head.
He looked back inside and motioned to the stable-man to look. Cautiously the man looked down at the sleeping form of Blondy Hagen.
“This,” said the stable-man seriously, “this here is my-steer-i-us, by——”
“Where did they go?” asked Easton, rubbing his head, on which appeared to be a bump about the size and shape of an egg. “Did you see the lady?”
“Was there a lady?”