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 our county and take it out of the jurisdiction of a set of robbers and thieves in the county north of us. Thanks. When we get the number of signers the law requires we'll send the petition to the secretary of state and have a little county all our own, Pawnee Bend the county seat."

"I ain't much of a citizen, but I guess there's no harm in it," said Bill, looking doubtfully at his name, written in good college Spencerian on the sheet of ruled foolscap inserted between the pages of a book.

"No, we're puttin' this thing through on the square, Mr. Dunham—night be of Scotch extraction, eh?"

"My double-great gran'dad was a Scotchman, they tell me. I didn't know him"—apologetically;—"that was before my time."

"He was a worthy man," MacKinnon declared, decisively as if they had come over on the same ship. "No, sir, no crooked work about this petition of ours. Every one of our signers is a bona fide citizen—you noticed I was particular on that before I had you sign? Look here: I have the floaters sign the register regular, as the law requires me to do, and the citizens sign the petition, in the way you've put your name to it, Mr. Dunham. Glad to welcome you, and hope you'll prosper as you deserve. MacKinnon is my name."

MacKinnon offered his hand, fraternity and equality in his ruddy face. There was even something friendly in the grinding sound of his voice to Bill. It reminded him of the cog-wheels in the cider-mill at home.

"How many names have you got on your petition?"