Jacob sprang at him, fury in his own face, and prudence gone. But as he sprang Trench met him with a blow straight from the shoulder. It caught Eaton fairly and sent him sprawling, full length on the floor. “By the Lord Harry, you got it, Jacob!” cried Judge Hollis from the door, where he had appeared unheard. As Jacob rose foaming, Caleb saw Aaron Todd’s head behind the judge, and after him Peter Mahan. There was no time to speak. Eaton flew at him again, his head down, and for the second time Caleb landed him on his back. Then the judge intervened. “That’s enough,” he said dryly. “I reckon he needed it, but he’s got it. Get up, Jacob, and keep quiet.” But Jacob would not; he got up to his feet again and made a rush forward, only to find himself clasped tight in Aaron Todd’s strong arms. “Be quiet,” said Todd, “you’ll go down again like a sack of salt, you idiot! You’re too full of booze to risk a blow on your solar plexis.” Eaton swore. “Let me go,” he said, “do you think I’ll take it from that fellow? You’re a prize-fighter!” he added between his teeth, lowering at Trench, and wriggling helplessly in Aaron’s arms, “you’re a common prize-fighter; if you were a gentleman you’d settle it with pistols!” “Tut, tut!” said the judge. “I will, if you like,” said Caleb coolly, his own wrath cooled by victory. Jacob’s eyes flashed; he was a noted shot. “I’ll send some one to you later,” he said, the perspiration standing out on his forehead, as he wrenched himself from Todd’s arms. “I’ve a mind to report you both to Judge Ladd,” said Judge Hollis, but his fiery old soul loved the smoke of battle. Jacob, panting and disheveled, reached for his hat. “It will be to-morrow,” he said, “and with pistols--if you consent.” Caleb looked at Todd and Mahan. “Will you represent me, gentlemen?” he asked quietly, something like a glint of humor in his eyes. Todd nodded, and Peter Mahan, a keen-visaged Irish Yankee, beamed. To his soul a battle was the essence of life, and a duel was not unreasonable west of the Mississippi. “Folly,” said Judge Hollis, secretly exultant, “rotten folly; let it drop.” Jacob turned at the door, his face livid. “Not till I’ve sent him to hell,” he said, and walked out. The judge brought his fist down on his knee. “By the Lord Harry,” he said, “it was this day twenty-odd years ago that Yarnall shot Jacob’s father.” “I shan’t shoot Jacob,” said Caleb dryly. Judge Hollis turned quickly. “What do you mean?” he began, but was interrupted. The door between the rooms opened suddenly, after much restless but unnoticed wriggling of the knob, and Sammy, in his plaid petticoat and his brass-buttoned jacket, came in on wobbly legs. He stopped abruptly and viewed the group, finger in mouth. “My God, what’s that?” exclaimed Judge Hollis blankly.