He led Dobbins from the post-office to the village tavern. As he had expected, Judge Roseberry was lounging on the bench outside, spouting politics to some loafer companions.
"Keep right with me, Mr. Dobbins," directed Frank. "I shall need your services."
"Drat me, if I can understand what you're getting at, lad," said Dobbins desperately, "but I'll stick, if I can be of any use to you."
Frank marched straight up to the crowd in front of the tavern.
"Judge Roseberry," he said calmly, but with an impressive seriousness, "I will thank you to return my pocket knife."
"Hey—h'm!" spluttered the judge, taken off his balance. "Your knife?"
"Precisely," insisted Frank.
"Why—how—who says I've got your knife?" stammered the judge, growing redder in the face than usual.
"Mr. Dobbins, here, informs me that he does," replied Frank.
"That's so," echoed Dobbins; "inasmuch as you showed it to me this morning."