higher key.

"They want the poles cut down," faltered Pat.

"Indade! An' phwat do they mane wakin' up honest people this dead o' the night, axin' the loike o' that?" demanded his wife, shrilly. "Get the gun, Pat, an' shoot the dirty thaves!"

Pat, shaking with excitement or fear, in a low, tremulous voice, inaudible to those without, reminded his spouse that the gun had been loaned out and was no longer there.

"An' bad luck to the man that borrowed it!" cried the undaunted Maggie. "It's betther used to shoot raiders with thin hawks."

"Get us an axe!" commanded the spokesman of the band, rapping sharply on the door.

"It's out at the wood pile beyant the house," answered Pat, meekly.

"Hush, you fool!" cried his wife, shrilly. "Phwat did ye tell 'em for? I'd 'a' seen the last wan o' thim to the divil first, where they'll go quick enough."

Two of the raiders went in search of the axe, and soon its dull blows were heard on the hard, seasoned wood of one of the poles, while the sound of the cutting seemed to infuriate Maggie as nothing else had done.

She sprang out of bed like a wildcat in nimbleness, and it took all the strength and persuasion that Pat could muster to keep her from opening the door and coming out into the midst of the raiders.

"Whist, darlint! Be aisy, for the love of hiven!" implored her frightened spouse. "Ye'll bring down the wrath o' the whole gang on us wid sich wild cacklin'. Be quiet!"

"Be quiet, indade! An' let thim prowlin' thaves cut down the poles an' take away our livin'? Not much!" cried Maggie, fiercely. "If I only had a gun, I'd loike to shoot the last wan o' thim—the dirty blackguards!"

"Hush, me jewel, an' mebbe they'll only cut down the poles an' l'ave us in peace!" pleaded Pat.

"I won't hush!" screeched Maggie, growing angrier each moment. "If ye're skeert, ye c'n crawl under the bed an' hide, ye cowardly cur! I'll go out an' run the last murdherin' wan o' thim away."

"Ye'll git the both of us kilt intoirely if ye don't dhry up wid yer clatter!" entreated Pat.

"I know ivery dhirty mother's son av ye!" screamed Maggie, putting her mouth close to the keyhole of the door, from which Pat had taken the key, and hidden it. "I know ye all, an' I'll have ye in the pinitintiary by termorrer night, ye bloodthirsty divils—ye—"

The rest of the sentence was suddenly muffled, as if Pat's hand had interposed, while a scuffling sound was heard inside the room that suggested he was trying to drag Maggie away from the door. The raiders crowded around the platform of the toll-house, listening in an ecstasy of delight.

Presently a resounding whack was heard, followed by a howl of pain from Pat, whom Maggie had struck, and speedily she was back at the keyhole again.

"Cut down the poles av ye want to, ye night-prowlin' rascals!" she bawled lustily. "I'll have 'em both up ag'in by daylight, an' I'd loike to see any sneakin' dog av ye git by an' not pay toll, ye thavin' robbers!"

"She'll do it, too," muttered Steve, who was standing near the captain. "She'll have bran'-new poles up almost before we can get home."

"The only way to get rid of this gate is to burn it, I think," said the captain, with an oath. "As she wants to come out so much, suppose we give her a chance. Get an armful of straw from the stable an' bring it here! We'll smoke her out."

While Steve hurried off to obey the order, two of the others gathered up some of the dry chips and splinters of wood from the cut poles, and when Steve returned with the straw a fire was kindled on the platform in a sheltered corner, farthest from the door.

As the flames quickly leaped up the walls of the toll-house, igniting the dry timbers, the flash of light, 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