“What’s that?” She looked a little startled.
He led the way out of the rear door of the courtroom and around to the back entrance of the jail. “Don’t leave out nothin’,” he counseled. “Take plenty of time to git the statement ready. I won’t break in on you more’n I can help.”
“I’ve got some things on the line at home that ought to come in before noon. They’ll fade.”
“Your nuggets is more important, though. Don’t you want everything settled before that down train? Here—write at this table. I come in here when I don’t want nobody to find me. Here’s pen an’ ink an’ paper.”
“I’ll use a pencil if you don’t mind.”
“No; statements allus got to be writ in ink. An’ make as nice a copy as you can.”
He left her, closing the door softly behind him. Outside, he drew a key from his pocket, noiselessly fitted it into the lock and turned it. Then he re-entered the courtroom on a run, lifted one edge of the flag, disclosing a telephone, rang the bell twice, listened, rang it again, asked for his number in a low voice, and when the reply came began to speak with decision: “Homer, this is Gid. Run up for a minute. Yas, it’s important. I must see you. Can’t tell you over the ’phone. But don’t you wait—come. All right.” Then he hung up, rang for a second number—the constable’s—gave some quick directions and, having drawn the flag into place over the telephone, sat down.
He waited, bowed over in his chair, with his elbows upon the arms of it, and his head supported by his hands. But when the rickety sidewalk gave warning of an oncomer he straightened, and smiled in welcome as Homer entered the door. “Wal, here you are,” he said by way of salutation.
Homer flung himself into a chair before the Judge’s desk, fanning himself with his hat. His thin face was tense, like the face of a man under a strain.
“Boy, this is what I want to say: Don’t josh Mrs. Luce.”