"My paw," the boy said mournfully, "won't let me have one. Well, I got to go down to Skinner's and get Maw some sugar."

"Take this."

Jeff drew a peppermint stick from his pack and extended it. The boy took it with the same hand he had used to pet Pal and grinned his thanks.

Jeff watched him skip down the street and sighed. He liked everybody, but he had an especially soft spot in his heart for children. Besides, it was good business. Should he decide to make a house-to-house canva.s.s, he had already paved the way in at least one home.

Two women pa.s.sed, going to the far side of the walk and keeping their eyes averted when they reached Jeff, and a man came from the opposite direction. Without seeming to, Jeff studied him.

About thirty, the man was slim and supple. Snapping black eyes and a pert waxed mustache betrayed his French origin, and from his quick, sure steps he was a woodsman. He swerved into John T. Allen's store and Jeff decided that he was a man of short temper. A moment later, that opinion was borne out.

"_Sacre!_" came an outraged roar. "You are a dog among dogs! A pig among pigs! You cheat the honest people!"

There came a snappish but calmer voice. "Take it easy, Pierre."

"Nev-air!" Pierre shouted. "Nev-air, and nev-air do I come back!" He bristled out of the store, turned to fling a final "Nev-air, pig!" back into it, and confronted Jeff.

"You know what he do?" he screamed. "I need the knife, the good hunting knife! For it he wants a doll-air and twenty-five cents!"

"Maybe they're worth that much."

"_Non!_ Nev-air!" He looked seriously at Jeff. "You sell the hunting knife?"

"I do not compete with merchants."

"You sell the hunting knife?" Pierre repeated.

"I--"

"Sell me the hunting knife!"

"But--"

"This I demand! Sell me the hunting knife!"

With every show of reluctance, Jeff drew a hunting knife with a three-inch blade from his pack. Pierre s.n.a.t.c.hed it and his eyes lighted deliriously.

"How much?"

"A dollar and twenty cents."

"Is good!"

Pierre pressed a rumpled dollar bill and two dimes into Jeff's hand, danced back to the store entrance and waved the knife as though he were about to go scalping with it.

"See!" he screamed at the storekeeper. "Dog! See! The pedd-lair, he do better than you! I have the hunting knife!"

Pierre stamped fiercely away and Jeff settled back to watch. But only for a moment.

The man who came out of the store was no more than five feet three and so thin that he seemed in imminent danger of collapsing. His nose, covering a fair share of his face, was oddly like a rudder. A few strands of blond hair clung precariously to his head and his eyes were furious.

"Did you sell that man a knife?"

"Yes, I did."

Without further ceremony, but with a roar that seemed incapable of emerging from one so small, the storekeeper bellowed,

"Joe!"

It was a signal Jeff had heard many times in many voices that expressed it many ways. This was one of the occasions when Tarrant Enterprises, Ltd., had better move fast. The dog fell in beside him as Jeff started to run. He was too late, though.

It was as though the storekeeper possessed some magical quality that could conjure up images at will. Jeff's path was suddenly blocked by a burly two-hundred-and-ten-pound man who wore a gun, a constable's badge, an air of authority, and who had never wasted any time acquiring fat. He loomed over Jeff as a mountain looms over a knoll.

"What's up?" he demanded.

"This peddler," the storekeeper reverted to his customary snappish voice, "is interfering with merchants. He sold Pierre LeLerc a hunting knife."

"Did you?" the constable asked Jeff.

"Yes, but I have a license."

"It's not one that allows you to peddle in business districts," the storekeeper a.s.serted. "Jail him, Joe."

"You comin' peaceable?" the constable asked. "Or should I take you!"

"Peaceable," Jeff answered hurriedly. "Always peaceable."

"Come on, then. Your dog got a license?"

"Look for yourself. Just sort of watch your hand."

"That dog bite?"

"Not usually."

"See that he don't, huh?"

"I'll see," Jeff promised.

He fell resignedly in beside the constable while Pal paced behind him.

He thought ruefully of how little a feeling of good fortune could be trusted. Still, by no means would this be the first jail to have him as guest, and probably it would not be the last. He might as well make the best of it.

"Nice town you have here," he said companionably.

"Yeah," the constable was entirely willing to be friendly, "it's all right."

"How long have you been chief of police in Cressman?"

"Nine years. Say! That's a good t.i.tle! Chief of Police, huh?"