Publisher's Synopsis
WHEN Dingman, the fate game-warden, came panting over the mountain from Spencers to confer with young Byram, road-master at Foxville, he found that youthful official reshingling his barn. The two men observed each other warily for a moment; Byram jingled the shingle-nails in his apron-pocket; Dingman, the game-warden, took a brief but intelligent survey of the premises, which included an unpainted house, a hen-yard, and the newly shingled barn. "Hello, Byram," he said, at length. "Is that you?" replied Byram, coldly. He was a law-abiding young man; he had not shot a bird out of season for three years. After a pause the game-warden said, "Ain't you a-comin' down off'n that ridge-pole?" "I'm a-comin' down when I quit shinglin'," replied the road-master, cautiously. Dingman waited; Byram fitted a shingle, fished out a nail from his apron-pocket, and drove it with unnecessary noise. The encircling forest re-echoed the hammer strokes; a squirrel scolded from the orchard. "Didn't I hear a gun go off in them alder bushes this morning?" inquired the game-warden. Byram made no reply, but hammered violently. "Anybody got a ice-house 'round here?" persisted the game-warden. Byram turned a non-committal eye on the warden. "I quit that business three years ago, an' you know it," he said. "I 'ain't got no ice-house for to hide no pa'tridges, an' I ain't a-shootin' out o' season for the Saratogy market!" The warden regarded him with composure. "Who said you was shootin' pa'tridges?" he asked. But Byram broke in:
