The Judge nodded. “Maybe,” he agreed. “Of course, this is old stuff. A little of it true, and a good deal of it lies. Dates back ten—twelve years. Maybe you can make it go. I don’t know. But I do know one thing, Jim. I know you’re a dirty specimen.” There was, abruptly, a hot ring in his tones.
Cotterill cried: “That’ll do! You’re through. No man can talk to me that way....”
Hosmer’s long arm shot out; his fingers twisted into the other’s collar. “Talk to you? Talk to you?” he repeated quietly. “Why, Jim, I aim to do considerable more than talk to you.” His right hand swung; he slapped the squirming man across the cheek. Swung and cuffed Jim Cotterill to and fro in a cold fire of rage....
Urged him toward the door; half dragged, half thrust, half threw him down the stairs; spurred his tumultuous exit from the house. A last stinging blow, and: “Git,” he said.
III
The Judge’s wife had come into the hall. Hosmer slowly shut the door, and he rubbed his hands as though they were soiled. There was trouble in his eyes, where the anger died.
Mary Hosmer touched his arm; asked softly: “What is it, Bob?”
He looked down at her; slowly shook his head. “Trouble, Mary,” he said frankly. “He wanted to beg, or buy, or steal the Furnace case. They’ve raked up those old affairs. The Chronicle will print the whole business in the morning. He’s gone to release the story now. I guess folks will walk right by and never see us, tomorrow, Mary.”
Comprehension came swiftly into her eyes; she cried rebelliously: “You’ve lived those old tales down, Bob!” He shook his head. “Anyway,” she told him, “I’m glad you—kicked him out as you did.”