“Quit that noise, Cholley!” exhorted the small man in the red sweater; “we want order in the court room—eh, Jedge?”
“What I’d like to know is where she got all that money of hers,” piped an old man, with a mottled complexion and bleary eyes.
“Sure enough; where’d she get it?” chimed in half a dozen voices at once.
“She’s Andrew Bolton’s daughter,” said the first speaker. “And she’s been setting up for a fine lady, doing stunts for charity. How about our town hall an’ our lov-elly library, an’ our be-utiful drinking fountain, and the new shingles on our church roof? You don’t want to ask too many questions, Lute.”
“Don’t I?” cried the man, who was eating hot dog. “You all know me! I ain’t a-going to stand for no grab-game. If she’s got money, it’s more than likely the old fox salted it down before they ketched him. It’s our money; that’s whose money ’tis, if you want to know!”
And he swallowed his mouthful with a slow, menacing glance which swept the entire circle.
“Now, Lucius,” began Judge Fulsom, removing the pipe from his mouth, “go slow! No use in talk without proof.”
“But what have you got to say, Jedge? Where’d she get all that money she’s been flamming about with, and that grand house, better than new, with all the latest improvements. Wa’n’t we some jays to be took in like we was by a little, white-faced chit like her? Couldn’t see through a grindstone with a hole in it! Bolton House.... And an automobile to fetch the old jailbird home in. Wa’n’t it lovely?”
A low growl ran around the circle.
“Durn you, Lute! Don’t you see the Jedge has something to say?” demanded the man behind the bar.