in the air, so astonished was he at the sight of what lay in the man’s hands.
“Why,” he blurted out, “it’s Ole Peterson’s brown bear skin!”
A quiver seemed to run through the whole of the crowd, while the silence became so complete that Miss Christina’s clock upon the wall went tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, three times before any one seemed to move or before the storm of the stranger’s fury broke forth.
“Whose did you say?” he snarled, rising suddenly and standing over Hugh, a threatening, towering figure. “Whose did you say it was?”
Hugh thought afterwards that never, as long as he lived, would he forget how terrible were those shifty, pale-blue eyes in that lowering face. He could never say it was real courage, but only rash, hot anger that made him answer defiantly,
“I said it was Ole Peterson’s. He told us it was the only one in the country and that it was stolen from him.”
The man gave a queer, harsh laugh.
