“Order—order!”
A gavel banged with explosive force against the desk. The magistrate was speaking, and in such a tone that even Mr. Whiffin felt called upon to moderate his voice.
While the hearings went on, he pleaded, threatened and expostulated with Joe, curtly declining to listen to any of Uncle Ralph’s suggestions. And every argument which the manager advanced Joe, who stood backed up against the wall, met with this reply:
“Naw, I ain’t a-goin’ ter do it!”
“Well, then you’ll go right up before the magistrate,” declared Mr. Whiffin. “I reckon you’ll listen to him, all right.”
“It’s the only thing that will put any sense into his head,” agreed Mr. Spudger.
But even this prospect did not make Joe waver.
“I’ve got a tongue in me head, an’ kin use it,” he exclaimed, defiantly.
“Joseph Rodgers!”
This name called out in the monotonous tones of the clerk finally brought all before the rail.