"But," said the boy, "he said——"
"We hold the police force in the hollow of our hands!" shouted Simpson. "We will protect you."
"I should say we would!" "You trust us!" "To the death!" chorused the roisterers.
"I'll collect damages from him for your death!" said Judge Blodgett. "Whom do you want 'em paid to?"
"D'vide the boodle," said the boy, "among my grandchildren—ekally. Do I go back?"
"You do," said Simpson, "as soon as another Exhibit A is prepared."
"It's ready, most noble Potentate," said Edgington ritualistically.
"Then let the messenger depart. Where's that menu I had? Hang it, you've used it for the kid, and it had my remarks on it. As I was saying, this is Brassfield's night. Everybody tells a story, sings a song or dances."
Edgington told a story which, he said, was "on Brassfield," and showed what regular devil that gentleman had been. It seemed that he and "Brass" were at one time fly-fishing in the mountains, and Eugene had so wrought on the fancy of the schoolmistress that she had let school out at three, and gone to learn casting of Brassfield.
"And when they came to the house at suppertime," he went on, "the whole family were laying for them. 'Ketch anything?' said the old lady, 'anythin' more'n a bullhead?' 'I c'n see,' said the hired man, 'that she's been castin' purty hard, by the way her dress is kinder pressed around the waist. It allers fixes mine that way!'"