The manager smiled.
“Our investment company would not think of such a thing. But we are not in the office just now. Your note wouldn’t be good, but your face is.” He reached in his pocket, took out a wallet, counted out five twenty-dollar bills and then laid on them his personal card, J. D. Tuttle. “When you can do so, send it to me. Haven’t you any funds?”
“Enough to get home,” responded Morey, “but I’m going to pay a fine with part of that and keep out of jail.”
“A fine? For what?”
“I bumped old Judge Lomax, in our town, on the floor because he said our place wasn’t worth twenty dollars an acre.”
“Whew!” laughed the manager. “I’m glad I valued it higher.”
Arrangements were soon concluded. When Morey left for Lee’s Court House in the morning an agent of the investment company was with him. They reached the little Rappahannock County town at about eleven o’clock. One of Marshal Robertson’s self-imposed duties was to conscientiously attend the arrival of each train. The marshal was dutifully on the platform.
“Do you want me?” asked Morey, hurrying up to the guardian of the peace.