“For what?” demanded the judge thickly. The sheriff had no time in which to answer.
“I want my money!” shrieked the landlady.
“Your money—Mrs. Walker, you amaze me!” The judge drew himself up haughtily, in genuine astonishment.
“I want my money!” repeated Mrs. Walker in even more piercing tones.
“I am not aware that I owe you anything, madam. Thank God, I hold your receipted bill of recent date,” answered the judge with chilling dignity.
“Good money—not this worthless trash!” she shook a bill under his nose. The judge recognized it as the one of which he had despoiled Hannibal.
“You have been catched passing counterfeit,” said the sheriff. A light broke on the judge, a light that dazzled and stunned. An officious and impatient gentleman tossed a looped end of the well-rope about his neck and the crowd yelled excitedly. This was something like—it had a taste for the man-hunt! The sheriff snatched away the rope and dealt the officious gentleman a savage blow on the chin that sent him staggering backward into the arms of his friends.
“Now, see here, now—I'm going to arrest this old faller! I am going to put him in jail, and I ain't going to have no nonsense—do you hear me?” he expostulated.
“I can explain—” cried the judge.
“Make him give me my money!” wailed Mrs Walker.