Rolf was speechless.
To toil so devotedly, and to have such filthy, humiliating words for thanks! He wondered if even his Uncle Mike would have shown so vile a spirit.
Hoag gave free rein to his tongue, and found in his pal, Bill Hawkins, one with ready ears to hear his tale of woe.

The wretch began to feel himself frightfully ill-used.

So, fired at last by the evermore lurid story of his wrongs, the "partner" brought the magistrate, so they could swear out a warrant, arrest the two "outlaws," and especially secure the bundle of "Hoag's furs" in the canoe.
Old Silas Sylvanne, the mill-owner and pioneer of the place, was also its magistrate.

He was tall, thin, blacklooking, a sort of Abe Lincoln in type, physically, and in some sort, mentally.

He heard the harrowing tale of terrible crime, robbery, and torture, inflicted on poor harmless Hoag by these two ghouls in human shape; he listened, at first shocked, but little by little amused.
"You don't get no warrant till I hear from the other side," he said.
Roff and Quonab came at call.