leather case.

The stranger grew cordial to him at once.

“Ah, now ye’re talkin’,” said he enthusiastically, undoing the flap of the case. “It’s a book, sonny. The greatest book, the most interestin’ book, the most useful book—and next to the Bible the most high-toned, uplifting book that was ever written. Ye can’t read yet, sonny, but this book has the loveliest pictures ye ever seen, and the greatest lot of ’em for the money.”

He drew reverently forth from the case a large, fat volume, bound sumptuously in embossed sky-blue imitation leather, lavishly gilt, and opened it upon his knees with a spacious gesture.

“There,” he continued proudly. “It’s called ‘Mother, Home, and Heaven!’ Ain’t that a title for ye? Don’t it show ye right off the kind of book it is? With this book by ye, ye don’t need any other book in the house at all, except maybe the almanack an’ the Bible—an’ this book has lots o’ the best bits out of the Bible in it, scattered through among the receipts an’ things to keep it all wholesome an’ upliftin’.

“It’ll tell ye such useful things as how to get a cork out of a bottle without breakin’ the bottle, when ye haven’t got a corkscrew, or what to do when the baby’s got croup, and there ain’t a doctor this side of Tourdulac. An’ it’ll tell ye how to live, so as when things happen that no medicines an’ no doctors and no receipts—not even such great receipts as these here ones” (and he slapped his hand on the counter) “can help ye through—such as when a tree falls on to ye, or you trip and stumble on to the saws, or git drawn down under half-a-mile o’ raft—then ye’ll be ready to go right up aloft, an’ no questions asked ye at the Great White Gate.

“An’ it has po’try in it, too, reel heart po’try, such as’ll take ye back to the time when ye was all white an’ innocent o’ sin at yer mother’s knee, an’ make ye wish ye was like that now. In fact, boys, this book I’m goin’ to show ye, with your kind permission, is handier than a pocket in a shirt, an’ at the same time the blessed fragrance of it is like a rose o’ Sharon in the household. It’s in three styles o’ bindin’, all reel handsome, but——”

“I want to look at another picture now,” protested Woolly Billy. “I’m tired of this one of the angels sayin’ their prayers.”

His amazing shock of silver-gold curls was bent intently over the book in the stranger’s lap. The woodsmen, on the other hand, kept on smoking with a far-off look, as if they heard not a word of the fluent harangue. They had a deep distrust and dread of this black-whiskered stranger, now that he stood revealed as the Man-Wanting-to-Sell-Something. The majority of them would not even glance in the direction of the gaudy book, lest by doing so they should find themselves involved in some expensive and complicated obligation.

The stranger responded to Woolly Billy’s appeal by shutting the book firmly. “There’s lots more pictures purtier than that one, sonny,” said he. “But ye must ask yer dad to buy it fer ye. He won’t regret it.” And he passed the volume on to Hawker, who, having no dread of book-agents, began to turn over the leaves with a superior smile.

“Dad’s gone away ever so far,” answered Woolly Billy sadly. “It’s an awfully pretty book.” And he looked at Tug Blackstock appealingly.

“Look here, mister,” drawled Blackstock. “I don’t take much stock myself in those kind of books, an’ moreover (not meanin’ no offence to you), any man that’s sellin’ ’em has got to larn to do a sight o’ lyin’. But as Woolly Billy here wants it so bad I’ll take a copy, if ’tain’t too dear. All the same, it’s only fair to warn ye that ye’ll not do much business in Brine’s Rip, for there was a book agent here last year as got about ha’f the folks in the village to sign a crooked contract, and we was all stung bad. I’d advise ye to move on, an’ not really tackle Brine’s Rip fer another year or so. Now, what’s the price?”

The stranger’s face had fallen during this speech, but it brightened at the concluding question.

“Six dollars, four dollars, an’ two dollars an’ a half, accordin’ to style of bindin’,” he answered, bringing out a handful of leaflets and order forms and passing them round briskly. “An’ ye don’t need to pay more’n fifty cents down, an’ sign this order, an’ ye pay the balance in a month’s time, when the books are delivered. I’ll give ye my receipt for the fifty cents, an’ ye jest fill in this order accordin’ to the bindin’ ye choose. Let me advise ye, as a friend, to take the six dollar one. It’s the best value.”

“Thanks jest the same,” said Blackstock drily, pulling out his wallet, “but I guess Woolly Billy’d jest as soon have the two-fifty one. An’ I’ll pay ye the cash right now. No signin’ orders fer me. Here’s my name an’ address.”

“Right ye are,” agreed the stranger cordially, pocketing the money and signing the receipt. “Cash payments for me every time, if I could have my way. Now, if some o’ you other gentlemen will follow Mr. Blackstock’s fine example, ye’ll never regret it—an’ neither will I.”

“Come on, Woolly Billy. Come on, Jim,” said Blackstock, stepping out into the street with the child and the dog at his heels. “We’ll be gittin’ along home, an’ leave this gentleman to argy with the boys.”

II

Jake Sanderson, with the pay for the mill-hands, did not arrive that night, nor yet the following morning. Along toward noon, however, there arrived a breathless stripling, white-faced and wild-eyed, with news of him. The boy was young Stephens, son of Andy Stephens, the game-warden. He and his father, coming up from Cribb’s Ridge, had found the body of Sanderson lying half in a pool beside the road, covered with blood. Near at hand lay the bag, empty, slashed open with a bloody knife. Stephens had sent his boy on into the Settlement for help, while he himself had remained by the body, guarding it lest some possible clue should be interfered with.

Swift as a grass fire, the shocking news spread through the village. An excited crowd gathered in front of the store, every one talking at once, trying to question young Stephens. The Sheriff was away, down at Fredericton for a holiday from his arduous duties. But nobody lamented his absence. It was his deputy they all turned to in such an emergency.

“Where’s Tug Blackstock?” demanded half a dozen awed voices. And, as if in answer, the tall, lean figure of the Deputy Sheriff of Nipsiwaska County came striding in haste up the sawdusty road, with the big, black dog crowding eagerly upon his heels.

The clamour of the crowd was hushed as Blackstock put a few questions, terse and pertinent, to the excited boy. The people of Nipsiwaska County in general had the profoundest confidence in their Deputy Sheriff. They believed that his shrewd brain and keen eye could find a clue to the most baffling of mysteries. Just now, however, his face was like a mask of marble, and his eyes, sunk back into his head, were like points of steel. The murdered man had been one of his best friends, a comrade and helper in many a hard enterprise.

“Come,” said he to the lad, “we’ll go an’ see.” And he started off down the road at that long loose stride of his, which was swifter than a trot and much less tiring.

“Hold on a minute, Tug,” drawled a rasping nasal voice.

“What is it, Hawker?” demanded Blackstock, turning