In spare moments at home Judge Priest was addicted to the game of croquet. He played it persistently and very badly. In his side yard under his dining-room window rusted wickets stood in the ordained geometric pattern between painted goal posts, and in a box under a rustic bench in the little tottery summerhouse beneath the largest of the judge's silver leaf poplar trees were kept the balls and the mallets—which latter instruments the judge insisted on calling mauls. And here, in this open space, he might be found on many a fine afternoon congenially employed, with some neighbourhood crony or a chance caller for his antagonist. Often, of mornings, when he had a half hour or so of leisure, he practiced shots alone.
On the morning which immediately followed the day of the broken-off joint debate at the boat-store corner, he was so engaged. He had his ball in excellent alignment and fair distance of the centre wickets, and was stooping to deliver the stroke when he became aware of his nephew approaching him hurriedly across the wide lawn.
“Uncle Billy,” began that straightforward young man, “something has happened, and I've come to you with it right off.”
“Son,” said the judge, straightening up reluctantly, “something happens purty nigh every day. Whut's on your mind this mornin'?”
“Well, suh, I was eating breakfast a little bit ago, when that Cal Tabscott came to the front door. He sent word he wouldn't come in, so I went out to the door to see what it was he wanted. He was standing there stiff and formal as a ramrod, all dressed up in his Sunday clothes, and wearing a pair of gloves, too—this weather! And he bowed without a word and handed me a letter and when I opened it it was a challenge from Quint Montjoy—a challenge to fight a duel with him, me to name the weapons, the time and the place! That's what I've got to tell you.”
His uncle's eyes opened innocently wide. “Boy, you don't tell me?” he said. “And whut did you do then?”
“Well, suh, I came within an ace of just hauling off and mashing that blamed idiot in the mouth—coming to my door with a challenge for a duel! But I remembered what you told me yesterday about keeping my temper and I didn't do it. Then I started to tear up that fool note and throw the pieces in his face.”
“You didn't do that neither, did you?” demanded the judge quickly, with alarm in his voice. “You kept it?”
“I didn't do that either and I kept the note,” replied the younger man, answering both questions at once. “I shut the door in Tabscott's face and left him on the doorstep and then I went and put on my hat and came right on over here to see you. Here's the note—I brought it along with me.”
His uncle took from him the single sheet of note paper and adjusted his specks. He gazed admiringly for a moment at the embossed family crest at the top and read its contents through slowly.