"On the tenth—came to you on the tenth?" the Judge broke in.
"I said the eleventh."
"William, I beg your pardon," the Judge replied, "but you said the tenth, raising my hopes, for you well know my predilection for that day. In many ways a man may be pardoned for recklessness, but not in the matter of a date. The exact time of an occurrence is almost as important as the occurrence itself. History would lose much of its value if the dates—"
"John, when you get into one of your tantrums you are enough to make a snow man melt himself with an oath. You'd make a dog swear."
"Not before me when I was on the bench. But your story. Ab Tollivar came to you and—"
"I'll not tell it." He got up and glared at the Judge. "Oughtn't I to know what day it was on?"
"Yes, and I believe you do. Sit down."
"I'll do nothing of the sort, sir. I'll not sit here to be insulted by you or anybody else." He moved off toward the door, but before going out, halted, turned, and said: "Mr. Bradley, I'll tell you the story some other time. But John shall never hear it." He gave his head a jerk, intended for a bow of indignation, and strode out.
"He's the dearest old fellow in the world," said the Judge, "and I couldn't get along without him."
"Isn't he somewhat younger than yourself?"