the cashier's office in the rear of the banking-room the two men stop and look silently upon the grewsome sight before them.
Lying upon the floor, one arm extended toward and almost touching the wide-open doors of the vault, is the body of Cashier Roger Hathaway. His life has ebbed in the crimson pool that stains the polished floor.
CHAPTER III.
JACK ASHLEY, JOURNALIST.
A loud pounding on the door of his room in the
tavern at South Ashfield awakens Mr. Jack Ashley from
a dream of piscatorial conquest.
"Four o'clock!" announces the disturber of his slumbers, with a parting thump. Ashley rolls out of bed and plunges his face into a brimming bowl of spring water.
It is early dawn. A cool breeze, laden with the scent of apple blossoms, drifts through the window.
"God made the country and man made the town," quotes the young man, as he descends to the hotel office.
"Ain't used to gittin' up at this hour, be ye?" grins the proprietary genius of the tavern.
"The habit, worthy host, has not fastened upon me seriously. This is usually my hour for going to bed. Hast aught to eat?"
"Breakfas' all ready," with a nod toward what is known as the dining-room.
Ashley shudders as he gazes at the spread. It is the usual Vermont breakfast—weak coffee, two kinds of pie on one plate, and a tier of doughnuts.
"Gad! This country is a howling wilderness of pie!" he mutters, surveying the repast in comical despair. "And to flash it on a man at 4 a. m.! It is simply barbarous!"
During his short vacation sojourn Mr. Ashley's epicurean tastes have suffered a number of distinct shocks. But the ozone of the Green Mountains has contributed
