FIERCELY the squire was limping to and fro, between his office-room and Mrs. Peternot’s kitchen, compressing his lips, and striking the floor every now and then with his cane, as he exclaimed, “He shall lay in jail! I’ll prosecute him! State’s prison’s too good for him!” when his wife called from the window, “Squire! squire! Here’s Deacon Chatford, jest drove up; beckonin’ and hollerin’!”