“What does this mean? What are these people doing there? What game is this?” He sputtered out the words, one question overlapping the next. “Son,” said Judge Priest, “you seem flustered. Ca'm yourself. This is no game as I know of. These are merely friends of mine--representatives of the daily press of your city.” “But how did they come to be here?” “Oh!” said the judge. “Why, I tele-phoned 'em. I telephoned 'em that I was comin' down here on a matter of business, and that maybe there might be a sort of an item for them if they'd come too. I've been makin' what they call copy for them, and we're all mighty sociable and friendly; and so they came right along. To tell you the truth, we all arrived practically together. You see, if I was sort of shoved out of here against my will and maybe mussed up a little those boys and that there young lady there--her name Is Miss Margaret Movine--they'd be sure to put pieces in their papers about it; and if it should come out incidentally that the cause of the row was a certain gasworks transaction, in a certain town down in Kentucky, they'd probably print that too. Why, those young fellows would print anything almost if I wanted them to. You'd be surprised! “Yes, suh, you'd be surprised to see how much they'd print for me,” he went on, tapping J. Hayden Witherbee upon his agitated chest with a blunt forefinger. “I'll bet you they'd go into the full details.” As Mr. Witherbee listened, Mr. Witherbee perspired freely. At this very moment there were certain transactions pending throughout the country--he had a telegram in his desk now from Betts, sent from a small town in Alabama--and newspaper publicity of an unpleasant and intimate nature might be fatal in the extreme. Mr. Witherbee had a mind trained to act quickly. “Wait a minute!” he said, mopping his brow and wetting his lips, they being the only dry things about him. “Wait a minute, please. If we could settle this--this matter--just between ourselves, quietly--and peaceably---there wouldn't be anything to print--would there?” “As I understand the ethics of your Eastern journalism, there wouldn't be anything to print,” said Judge Priest. “The price of them gasworks, accordin' to the latest quotations, was sixty thousand--but liable to advance without notice.” “And what--what did you say you'd buy 'em back at?” “Twenty-six thousand five hundred was the last price,” said the judge, “but subject to further shrinkage almost any minute.” “I'll trade,” said Mr. Witherbee. “Much obliged to you, son,” said Judge Priest gratefully, and he began fumbling in his breast pocket. “I've got the papers all made out.” Mr. Witherbee regained his desk and reached for a checkbook just as the officeboy poked his head in again. “Special officer's cornin' right away, sir,” he said. “Tell him to go away and keep away,” snarled the flurried Mr. Witherbee; “and you keep that door shut--tight! Shall I make the check out to you?” he asked the judge.