“Gentlemen—” began the judge blandly.
“Get the well-rope!”
The judge was rather at loss properly to interpret these varied remarks. He was not long left in doubt. The sheriff stepped to his side and dropped a heavy hand on his shoulder.
“Mr. Slocum Price, or whatever your name is, your little game is up!”
“Get the well-rope! Oh, hell—won't some one get the well-rope?” The voice rose into a wail of entreaty.
The judge's eyes, rather startled, slid around in their sockets. Clearly something was wrong—but what—what?
“Ain't he bold?” it was a woman's voice this time, and the fat landlady, her curls awry and her plump breast heaving tumultuously, gained a place in the forefront of the crowd.
“Dear madam, this is an unexpected pleasure!” said the judge, with his hand upon his heart.
“Don't you make your wicked old sheep's eyes at me, you brazen thing!” cried the lady.
“You're wanted,” said the sheriff grimly, still keeping his hand on the judge's shoulder.