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"Did he kill somebody?" whispered Abner in an awed voice.

"Damn it, yes. That's Peck Bradley, the feller that killed ol' man Shelton. You ort to know him, Abner, you wuz up at the murder trile in Lanesburg. Good God, boy, do you set aroun' asleep?" Here Mr. Beavers lifted his whispers to full voice again, and said cordially, "Well, Peck, by God, I didn't hope to see you out so soon."

Mr. Bradley began his hard-lined grinning again and ejaculated the single name, "Buckingham Sharp."

"A fine lawyer," put in a third voice commendingly.

"That's a fack," nodded Tug, "a feller kain't do nothin' hardly but what Buck Sharp kin git him off scot free. A mighty fine man to have in a community. Well, Peck, what you doin' down here?"

"Work"—from Mr. Bradley.

Half-a-dozen of his admirers gathered around Mr. Bradley, who turned and strolled with the crowd back to the bank.

Abner, following behind, peered through this escort at the man killer and received of him the most unearthly impression: the stocky body, the short, powerful legs, the round head with its rough black hair that might very well have been pig's bristles—this Peck Bradley really had murdered a man; has erased another human being cleanly from the earth. In the crowd were other men much like Peck, but the aura of this murder set him apart from all the other labourers; it cast a strange atmosphere over him. Abner peered at him with fascinated eyes until the crowd reached the bank. The labourers filed in. Peck Bradley walked on up the street with stiff wooden movements through self-consciousness from having a whole streetful watch him. As he went he smoked a cigar, holding it between his thumb and finger, looking at it, giving it his whole attention.

All of the labourers could not enter the lobby of the Irontown bank at the same time, and some had to wait out on the pavement before the building. Abner and Tug entered with the first draft and stood for their turn before the window.