“She wouldn’t marry me, Gid.”
A knocking sounded from without, at the rear.
“What’s that?” Homer caught the Judge’s sleeve in a frightened grasp.
“It’s Mrs. Luce. I kept her in there, writin’, till I could git them nuggets back. Now, you skip. Go home. Here’s your hat. Stay there till I come. Now, don’t forgit.” He hurried the other to the front door, opened it and shoved him on to the sidewalk. Then, with long strides, he gained the rear yard.
“By Jingo!” he called out. “Is that door stickin’, Mrs. Luce? You’re a shore enough prisoner! Wal, that’s a good one! Never mind. Come along. Where’s that statement?”
Mrs. Luce handed him several sheets of foolscap. “I don’t think I’ve left anything out,” she said. “Can you read my awful writing?”
When they were in the courtroom, in their former places, the Judge laid the written sheets upon his desk, leaned back, looked at her a moment silently, and then began to smile across at her.
“Say!” he said. “You shore can’t take a josh.”
“What d’ you mean?”
“What I said to you when you first come in. How many people did you say you’d tole?”