“Neither are you strong enough to nominate him,” said the judge sharply. “You look out for the blood feud, Caleb; these fellows behind Jacob Eaton haven’t forgotten that the Yarnalls drew the last blood. They’re mighty like North American Indians, and your Cresset speech stirred up a hornet’s nest. I’m for Aylett and peace.” Trench folded the papers on his desk reflectively. “I can’t make out Jacob Eaton,” he said. The judge chuckled. “He’s a mighty queer package,” he said grimly, “a cross between a mollycoddle and a bully. Jinny Eaton raised him in jeweler’s cotton for fear he’d catch the measles, and he went to college with a silver christening mug and a silk quilt. When he got there he drank whiskey and played the races, and some poor devil, who was working his way through college, coached him for his exams. He got out with a diploma but no honors, and enough bad habits to sink a ship. Then Jinny introduced him to society as the Model Young Man. He’s been speculating ever since, and he’s got the shrewd business sense that old man Eaton had. He doesn’t care two cents for Aylett, but he’s going to fight Yarnall to the knife. He-- What the devil’s the matter with Zeb Bartlett?” the judge suddenly added, stooping to look out of the window. “He’s been walking past the front door, back and forth, four or five times since I’ve been sitting here, and he’s making faces until he looks like a sculpin.” Trench laughed grimly. “He does that at intervals,” he replied, “because I won’t lend him a dollar to get tipsy on.” The judge grunted, his head still lowered to command a view of the shambling figure of the idiot. Then he rose suddenly and went to the window, thrusting his hand into his pocket. “Here, Zeb!” he shouted, in his stentorian tones, “take that and get drunk, and I’ll have you arrested,” and he flung out fifty cents. Bartlett groveled for it in the dust, found it and grinned idiotically. Then, retreating a few steps, he looked back and kissed his hand, still gurgling. The judge watched him out of sight, then he sat down and took snuff. “Don’t let that fool hang around here,” he said sharply; “it will get a crank into his head and the Lord knows how it’s going to come out. Give him a quarter and let him go.” “I won’t,” said Caleb dryly. “I’d rather give it to his grandmother; she’ll need it.” “To be sure,” said the judge ironically, “and she’d give it to him with a dime on top of it; that’s a woman down to the ground. If there’s anything worthless within a hundred miles, they’ll adore it!” As he spoke, there was a rustle in the outer shop and Miss Sarah suddenly thrust her head in the door. She always wore the most extraordinary bonnets, and the one to-day had a long green plume that trembled and swayed behind her head like the pendulum of an eight-day clock.