“You damned little fice dog, you–” this to Morty, “you–you–” Morty dashed around the table toward the Judge, but before he could reach the man to strike, the Judge was moving his jaws impotently, and grasping the thin air. His mouth foamed as he fell and he lay, a shivering, white-eyed horror, upon the floor. The bank clerks lifted the figure to a leather couch, and some one summoned Doctor Nesbit.
The Doctor saw the whiskey bottle half emptied and saw the white faced, prostrate figure. The Doctor sent the clerks from the room as he worked with the unconscious man, and piped to Morty as he worked, “Nothing serious–heat–temper, whiskey–and vanity and vexation of spirit; ‘vanity of vanities–all is vanity–saith the preacher.’” Morty and Nathan left the room as the man’s eyes opened and the Doctor with a woman’s tenderness brought the wretched, broken, shattered bundle of pride back to consciousness.
For years this became George Brotherton’s favorite story. He first told it to Henry Fenn thus:
“Say, Henry, lemme tell you about old man Sands. He come in here the day after he got back from Chicago to wrestle with me for letting Morty vote against Tom. Well–say–I’m right here to tell you that was some do–all right, all right! You know he thought I got Morty and Nate to vote that way and the old spider came hopping in here like a granddaddy long-legs and the way he let out on your humble–well, say–say! Holler–you’d orto heard him holler! Just spat pizen–wow! and as for me who’d got the 307lad into the trouble–as for me,” Mr. Brotherton paused, folded his hand over his expansive abdomen and sighed deeply, as one who recalls an experience too deep for language. “Well, say–I tried to tell him I didn’t have anything to do with it, but he was wound up with an eight-day spring! I knew it was no use to talk sense to him while he was batting his lights at me like a drunk switchman on a dark night, but when he was clean run down I leans over the counter and says as polite as a pollywog, ‘Most kind and noble duke,’ says I, ‘you touch me deeply by your humptious words!’ says I, ‘let me assure you, your kind and generous sentiments will never be erased from the tablets of my most grateful memory’–just that way.
“Well, say–” and here Mr. Brotherton let out his laugh that came down like the cataract at Ladore, “pretty soon Morty sails in fresh as a daisy and asks:
“‘Father been in here?’
“‘Check one father,’ says I.
“‘Raising hell?’ he asks.
“‘Check one hell,’ says I.
“‘Well, sir,’ says he, ‘I’m exceedingly sorry.’