"I wonder"—Tate's face assumed its cheerful placidity—"if his marrying of Jude and Joyce would hold in any court o' law?"
At this the listeners laughed.
"Who ever heard of a marriage in St. Angé getting to a court o' law?" asked Tom Smith.
"But Jared ain't never had a daughter married before." Tate nodded his head sagely. "Jared's a deep one, and, taken off his guard, shows he knows more about law and order than any one man I ever let my eyes fall on."
"He must be all-fired off his guard," jeered Falstar, "when he talks order of any kind. Where is he, anyway?"
"Exactly." Tate held his own glass high and firm. "Where is he? Here is his daughter's wedding day—Where is he? I tell you if that marriage ain't hard and fast, it's my opinion Birkdale will trifle with it to suit his own ends. Jude's taking chances when he annexes Jared to his responsibilities, and don't you forget it! If that marriage ain't hide-bound, or if Jude don't provide for Birkdale, it's going to be broke if Jared has to raise all damnation to do it. He's got his eye to a knothole somewhere, you bet your life on that."
By superhuman sacrifice St. Angé had kept itself sober the Saturday night preceding the wedding but it did not sleep much. The male population discussed the day's doings and the women searched their meagre belongings for appropriate trappings for the next day's festivities.
Their resources were limited, and the day being Sunday, added to the difficulty.
"You can't," said draggled Peggy Falstar, "put on real gay toggings in a church and on a Sunday."
Isa Tate, as leading lady in the place, solved the problem.