“Set down, boys; set down,” ordered a small man in a red sweater under a corduroy coat. “Give the Jedge a chance! He ain’t going to deliver no opinion whilst you boys are rammaging around. Set down and let the Jedge take th’ floor.” A general scraping of chair legs and a shuffling of uneasy feet followed this exhortation; still no word from the huge, impassive figure in the central chair. The oily-faced young man behind the bar improved the opportunity by washing a dozen or so glasses, setting them down showily on a tin tray in view of the company. “Quit that noise, Cholley!” exhorted the small man in the red sweater; “we want order in the court room—eh, Jedge?” “What I’d like to know is where she got all that money of hers,” piped an old man, with a mottled complexion and bleary eyes. “Sure enough; where’d she get it?” chimed in half a dozen voices at once. “She’s Andrew Bolton’s daughter,” said the first speaker. “And she’s been setting up for a fine lady, doing stunts for charity. How about our town hall an’ our lov-elly library, an’ our be-utiful drinking fountain, and the new shingles on our church roof? You don’t want to ask too many questions, Lute.” “Don’t I?” cried the man, who was eating hot dog. “You all know _me!_ I ain’t a-going to stand for no grab-game. If she’s got money, it’s more than likely the old fox salted it down before they ketched him. It’s our money; that’s whose money ’tis, if you want to know!” And he swallowed his mouthful with a slow, menacing glance which swept the entire circle. “Now, Lucius,” began Judge Fulsom, removing the pipe from his mouth, “go slow! No use in talk without proof.” “But what have you got to say, Jedge? Where’d she get all that money she’s been flamming about with, and that grand house, better than new, with all the latest improvements. Wa’n’t we some jays to be took in like we was by a little, white-faced chit like her? Couldn’t see through a grindstone with a hole in it! Bolton House.... And an automobile to fetch the old jailbird home in. Wa’n’t it lovely?” A low growl ran around the circle. “Durn you, Lute! Don’t you see the Jedge has something to say?” demanded the man behind the bar. Judge Fulsom slowly tapped his pipe on the arm of his chair. “If you all will keep still a second and let me speak,” he began. “I want my rights,” interrupted a man with a hoarse crow. “Your rights!” shouted the Judge. “You’ve got no right to a damned thing but a good horsewhipping!” “I’ve got my rights to the money other folks are keeping, I’ll let you know!” Then the Judge fairly bellowed, as he got slowly to his feet: “I tell you once for all, the whole damned lot of you,” he shouted, “that every man, woman and child in Brookville has been paid, compensated, remunerated and requited in full for every cent he, she or it lost in the Andrew Bolton bank failure.” There was a snarl of dissent.