"I can understand all right about Andrew Bolton's turning up," one
man was saying. "He was bound to turn up sooner or later. I seen him
myself, day before yesterday, going down street. Thinks I, 'Who can
that be?' There was something kind of queer about the way he dragged
his feet. What you going to do about it, Judge? Have we got to put up
with having a jailbird, as crazy as a loon into the bargain, living
right here in our midst?"
"In luxury and idleness, like he was a captain of industry," drawled
another man who was eating hot dog and sipping beer. "That's what
strikes me kind of hard, Judge, in luxury and idleness, while the
rest of us has to work."
Judge Fulsom gave an inarticulate grunt and smoked on imperturbably.
"Set down, boys; set down," ordered a small man in a red sweater
under a corduroy coat. "Give the Jedge a chance! He ain't going to
deliver no opinion whilst you boys are rammaging around. Set down and
let the Jedge take th' floor."
A general scraping of chair legs and a shuffling of uneasy feet
followed this exhortation; still no word from the huge, impassive
figure in the central chair. The oily-faced young man behind the bar
improved the opportunity by washing a dozen or so glasses, setting
them down showily on a tin tray in view of the company.
"Quit that noise, Cholley!" exhorted the small man in the red
sweater; "we want order in the court room--eh, Jedge?"
"What I'd like to know is where she got all that money of hers,"
piped an old man, with a mottled complexion and bleary eyes.
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