"That's th' poll books of Lincoln township. I'm takin' 'em to Pancake tonight so they can canvass th' vote in today's election. Know what they'll find? They'll find that Sim Burns is supervisor."
"I expected so. You were unopposed."
"Unopposed! An' I'd 've won anyhow; I'd 've won if it was th' last thing I ever done, because ever since that time when th' story about you an' your dog an' me got around I've lived just to pay you back." His voice mounted as he moved closer to her, head on one side, arm extended in an accusing point. "By bein' supervisor, I'm tax officer of this town; by bein' tax officer I hold you an' your forest in my power! Like that! Now, do you understand?" He opened his long bony fingers to their limit and closed them slowly as though they strangled a hated life.
One of Helen Foraker's hands, which had hung limp at her side, moved ever so slightly, some of the color went from her face and in place of her scorn appeared a flicker of misgiving.
Burns remained tense a moment, then relaxed suddenly and laughed again.
"I guess you get me," nodding slowly. "You seen fit to run me off your place. Now I'll see fit to tax you out of th' county!
"There's only one reason your old man an' you got by this far. Your father was laughin' stock for th' old county officers. They'd told him so often that he was a fool and couldn't grow pine that they got to believing it. They rode him so hard that they couldn't believe any other way an' save their faces. So naturally they couldn't run up his taxes, 'cause if they did, they'd admit that they
