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"Peck here ast if you had a gun." Parrum's voice was full of respect for the slayer of old man Shelton.

"Yeh, I borrowed Tug's automatic."

Mr. Bradley was interested at once. "What's Tug goin' ter use?" he asked in his hard voice.

"He ain't comin' here."

"Skeered?"

"Nope, goin' over to ol' Squire Meredith's to-night."

Came a silence, then Bradley said in a sneering tone, "I God, I see, runnin' after that Meredith gal. All I got to say if he's welcome to her, fur's I'm concerned. I wouldn't wipe my foot on a gal like her. She ain't fitten to be the wife of a sawdust monkey." After this hearty disapproval Mr. Bradley mouched along in the darkness for half a minute and then out of his reflections began a nasal ditty to a melancholy hill tune:

He broke off his own song to say, "Well, here we air," and the next instant he must have lifted a heavy revolver, for six crashing flames spurted into the blackness. This was a signal for a fusillade all around the church. Shots roared in every direction, the flashes winking like fireflies.

Great excitement seized Abner. He got out his own weapon and with a trembling hand fired it at the skies. At every discharge the big automatic leaped in his hand.

The three disturbers came around a turn in a little alley and saw the church looking very large right in front of them. Through three open windows Abner could see the congregation rising in fright. The headiest excitement seized the youth at this milling of the people in the lighted interior. He fired his automatic in a roaring, leaping staccato. He rammed in another clip of cartridges. He was an Indian ambushing settlers; a soldier routing enemies. In reality