But any
attempt to force his hand was looked upon as a distinct infringement
of his privilege.
"You want to keep your face shut, Lute, till th' Jedge gets ready to
talk," counseled a middle-aged man who sat tilted back in the next
chair. "Set down, son, and cool off."
"Well, you see I got to hurry along," objected the young farmer
impatiently, "and I wanted to know if there was anything in it. Our
folks had money in the old bank, an' we'd give up getting anything
more out the smash years ago. But if the Bolton place has actually
been sold--"
He finished with a prolonged whistle.
The greatness in the middle chair emitted a grunt.
"Humph!" he muttered, and again, "Hr-m-m-ph!"
"It would be surprising," conceded the middle-aged man, "after all
these years."
"Considerable many of th' creditors has died since," piped up a lean
youth who was smoking a very large cigar. "I s'pose th' children of
all such would come in for their share--eh, Judge?"
Judge Fulsom frowned and pursed his lips thoughtfully.
"The proceedings has not yet reached the point you mention, Henry,"
he said. "You're going a little too fast."
Nobody spoke, but the growing excitement took the form of a shuffling
of feet. The Judge deliberately lighted his pipe, a token of mental
relaxation. Then from out the haze of blue smoke, like the voice of
an oracle from the seclusion of a shrine, issued the familiar
recitative tone for which everybody had been waiting.
"Well, boys, I'll tell you how 'twas: Along about ten minutes of
twelve I had my hat on my head, and was just drawing on my linen
duster with the idea of going home to dinner, when I happened to look
out of my office window, and there was Deacon Whittle--and the girl,
just coming up th' steps.
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