“So you’re bound to go to court?” asked Peak, recovering courage when he saw Hiram peering at him wistfully, as though seeking encouragement.
“Low court—high court—clear’n to the ridge-pole—-clear’n to the cupoly, and then I’ll shin the weather-vane with the Star-Spangled Banner of justice between my teeth.” He slapped his hand on his knee.
“I heard a breach of promise trial once, a long time ago,” related Simon, half closing his eyes in reminiscence. “Of course this ain’t nothin’ to do with you and your case, but I can’t help sayin’ that that trial was the funniest thing I ever heard. I never laughed so hard in my life. It beat a show, that trial did. ’Twas all of twenty years ago, and I’ll bet the people down there laugh yet when they see that feller walk along the street. Them letters he wrote was——Is there letters in your case, Hiram?”
He turned an innocent gaze on the showman.
Hiram mopped his face.
“I—I b’lieve there was,” he faltered. “She flung out somethin’ about havin’ ’em now. Mebbe she has. A cussed woman never loses anything that you want her to.”
“Oh, prob’ly your letters ain’t like his letters,” continued Simon, trying to console. “You’ve got sense about such things.
“But I remember that them letters that that feller wrote was certainly the squashiest—why, ev’ry one of ‘em seemed to woggle jest like a tumbler of jelly—sweet and sloppy, as you might say. It bein’ so long ago when you wrote to her, I don’t suppose you remember just what you wrote, do you?”
His stare was still full of innocence.
Hiram was sitting looking down into a knot-hole, a hot flush crawling up from under his collar. He took off his plug hat and scuffed his wrist across his steaming forehead.