The face lifted to Jamie was the face of a small pagan dealing justice. There was not a hint of mercy; there was not a hint of tolerance. It was as inexorable, as immobile as the face of the figure of Justice holding the scales above the judge’s chair in the office of the Probate Court. A cold shiver crept down Jamie’s back. For the first time he addressed his small partner by name.
“Jean,” he said, “Jean, be mighty careful what you do. I am not claiming that I haven’t got an awful wrench in the prospect of being driven from the garden, of giving up what the Bee Master meant me to have, but however much your share of it means to you it cannot mean what it would if you did some terrible thing and got yourself put in prison or blackened your whole life. There is only one way to manage these things, and that is to let justice take its course.”
“Edzackly what I think!” agreed the little Scout. “I’m not believing that there isn’t justice in this village, and I’m not believing it ain’t goin’ to take its course if I spring from ambush like Chief Running Horse at the right time. I told you before, I tell you now, you keep out of this and you watch my dust!”
The little Scout wheeled and went back to the house. Facing the interloper, in tones of suave politness, this message was delivered: “ Mistaw MacFarlane says to tell you that the keys of Mistaw Worthington’s chest are in the care of Mistaw Meredith and that Mistaw Meredith will be out of town for several days and they cawn’t be delivered until his return.”
