“Come on, boys! Let’s go out to the old place and get our rights off that gal of Bolton’s!”
“That’s th’ stuff, Lute!” yelled the others, clashing their glasses wildly. “Come on! Come on, everybody!”
In vain Judge Fulsom hammered on the bar and called for order in the court room. The majesty of the law, as embodied in his great bulk, appeared to have lost its power. Even his faithful henchman in the red sweater had joined the rioters and was yelling wildly for his rights. Somebody flung wide the door, and the barroom emptied itself into the night, leaving the oily young man at his post of duty gazing fearfully at the purple face of Judge Fulsom, who stood staring, as if stupefied, at the overturned chairs, the broken glasses and the empty darkness outside.
“Say, Jedge, them boys was sure some excited,” ventured the bartender timidly. “You don’t s’pose—”
The big man put himself slowly into motion.
“I’ll get th’ constable,” he growled. “I—I’ll run ’em in; and I’ll give Lute Parsons the full extent of the law, if it’s the last thing I do on earth. I—I’ll teach them!—I’ll give them all they’re lookin’ for.”
And he, too, went out, leaving the door swinging in the cold wind.
At the corner, still meditating vengeance for this affront to his dignity, Judge Fulsom almost collided with the hurrying figure of a man approaching in the opposite direction.
“Hello!” he challenged sharply. “Where you goin’ so fast, my friend?”
“Evening, Judge,” responded the man, giving the other a wide margin.