the smoke, the crackle of burning wood, all speedily revealed to the two within the building what was taking place without.
"I tould ye to shut up, ye screechin' varmint!" cried Pat, in a terror-stricken voice. "They're burnin' us up aloive. The howly saints protect us!"
Maggie gave a loud whoop, this time rather of fear than of rage, though the two were strongly blended.
"Help! Murdher!" she shrieked.
"I thought she'd change her tune, the wildcat!" muttered the captain, grimly.
A few minutes later the back door of the toll-house was thrown quickly open, but as the two terror-stricken inmates of the burning building appeared in the doorway, ready to flee into the night, they were confronted by a couple of raiders with masks and drawn pistols.
"Go back!" the men sternly commanded.
"For the love o' hiven, don't shoot!" pleaded Pat.
"Go back!" the men repeated, leveling their weapons threateningly.
In silent terror the two obeyed and shiveringly drew back into the burning house. Dark spirals of smoke were by this time curling from the roof in several places, and soon little jets of flame thickly dotted it, shooting up from between the smoking shingles; then finally one broad sheet of flame overspread the top—a canopy of fire.
Milt looked on in a sort of spell-bound fascination. What did the raiders mean to do? Surely not to burn these two helpless people within the toll-house. That were a crime far too serious for even this spirit of outlawry.
He stood silent, watching with a growing fear the smoke escaping from the roof, then the little spurting jets of flame, and when they united in a broad, livid sheet, he felt no longer able to restrain his pity, but started to where the captain sat on his horse, calmly watching the proceedings, intending to petition him for mercy toward the two hapless ones within the doomed toll-house.
Before he reached the leader of the band, however, the captain blew a sharp call on his whistle, and while the three outlying guards beyond the gate dashed up in answer to the summons, two of the raiders, at a sign from their leader, had broken in the front door, then, mounting their horses, the band rode swiftly down the road, after a shrill cry of "Free roads! Down with the toll-gates!"
When Milt looked back he felt a wave of regret surge over him, as he saw, by the glare of the light, which was illuminating the landscape around, Maggie's lank figure looming up, tall and straight, in the middle of the pike, her long arms stretched out menacingly toward the retreating raiders, at whom she was doubtless hurling bitter, Celtic-tinged invectives, while Pat was rushing wildly in and out of the burning building, striving to save some of the few household effects—then a curve in the turnpike shut off a further view.
CHAPTER VI.
Squire Bixler, president of the New Pike Road, sat before his wood fire, nodding under the genial warmth the flickering flames threw out across the broad hearth. The weekly town paper, over which he dozed and wakened by turns, now lay on the floor by his chair, having dropped from his relaxed fingers during his latest nap, while his spectacles, gradually slipping forward as his head dropped lower on his tobacco-stained shirt, now finally rested on the tip of his red nose, and threatened to fall each moment.
Short puffs, as if he were still smoking, came at regular intervals from between his thick, partly-opened lips, although his cob pipe had followed his paper to the floor, and the spectacles seemed on the point of speedily joining them.
To the most careless observer it was all too evident that no wifely care was present in the house of Bixler. A motley disorder, revealing many unsightly things, occupied the chimney corners, and encroached upon the hearth. From some nails upon the wall hung a saddle and harness, opposite stretched a line filled with long green tobacco like clothes swung out to dry. The tall mantelshelf was given over to old bottles, cob pipes, and a conglomerate mass of odds and ends of things—the accumulation of many moons, while dust and cobwebs gathered freely over all—a fitting tribute to the absence of womanhood.
It was past the Squire's bedtime. In evidence he had removed his shoes, but seemed to have dropped asleep while looking over his paper, unless he had intentionally delayed his usual hour for retiring.
Suddenly the sharp striking of several small pebbles thrown lightly against the window shutters partly aroused him from his nap, but not until the sound was repeated did he awake sufficiently to give heed to the signal.
Lifting his head with a start, as one who has dropped asleep unwittingly, he adroitly caught his spectacles, with the skill of frequent practice, as they dropped from his nose, then glancing at the clock he got up hastily and went to the window whence the sound seemed to come.
Cautiously raising the sash, that the servants might not be awakened in the ell of the house, the Squire opened one of the shutters carefully and looked furtively out. An interrogation followed, and an answer came from the darkness.
"All right! I'll let you in." The Squire closed shutter and sash, caught up the candle, which was burning low in the socket, and went into the front hall.
When he had unlocked and unbarred the door, a sudden gust of wind blew out the candle's flame as the visitor was admitted, but the fire-light served as a beacon, and while the host was fastening the door the belated visitor passed through the hall into the Squire's sitting room, and walked over to where the fire threw out a grateful warmth over his chilled frame.
"It's keen and frosty out tonight," said the visitor, spreading his hands wide to the blaze.
"I am more interested in other news you may bring," answered the host, setting down the candle, from whose black wick a tiny spiral of smoke arose and floated away into the dim shadows that hovered about the room. The Squire clung to early customs, and would not use a lamp. "An invention of man and the devil," he insisted.
"Well, I've got some news for you this time—some good news," the visitor said, slowly cracking the joints of his fingers as he stood before the fire.
"Let's have it!" insisted the Squire briefly.
"Somethin' you'll be right glad to hear," continued the other, dallying with the subject, as if loth to part with so choice a morsel.
"Well, I'm waiting to hear it," yawning, to call attention to the late hour.
"I'm chilled through an' through," muttered the visitor, apparently unmindful of the Squire's impatience, and giving a shiver, partly genuine, partly affected, as he glanced up at the motley collection of bottles on the chimney shelf. "Don't you keep anything warmin'?" he added, turning to the host.
"Do you want a dram?"
The guest chuckled audibly at the Squire's powers of divination, and with eager eyes followed the portly figure to a small press in the side of the chimney. The host brought forth a bottle and glass, which he placed on the candle stand, and, without further invitation, the guest quickly caught up the bottle and poured the amber liquor into the glass, filling it to the brim. He emptied it at a gulp, then slowly refilled the glass and reluctantly handed back the bottle to the Squire, who reached out impatiently for it.
"That warms me up powerful," said the visitor, draining
