"A question?" he echoed at last, thoughtfully. "A question? Well, Jedge, there was one thing I was a-goin' to ask you. Jest one triflin' thing I was kinda curious to know. Why, I was a-goin' to ask you, back a spell--What did you hev? It kinda interested me, wonderin' about it. But now--now that I've heard your story in full, I reckon I'll hev to change that question a mite. I reckon they ain't nothin' left but to ask you--How many did you hev? How many, Jedge? For, Jedge, you're talkin' most mighty wild tonight!" And that silence endured--endured even after the huge man had half-risen, purple features gone white, and then dropped heavily back into his chair before that rigid figure in its sodden garments which had turned from him toward the rest of the circle of regulars. Old Jerry made his formal exit that night--he knew that he was resigning his chair--but the thing was very cheap at the price. [Illustration: "WHAT YOU NEED, GENTLEMEN, IS A TRIFLE WIDER READIN'--JUST A TRIFLE! FOR YOU AIN'T BEIN' WELL POSTED ON FACTS!"] "An' I reckon, too," he went on deliberately, and there was a wicked fleer of sarcasm tinging the words, "I reckon I'll hev to kinda apologize to you gentlemen for interruptin' your evenin's entertainment, as you might say. I'm sorry I ain't able to remain, for it's interestin'. I don't know's I've ever heard anything that was jest as excitin' an' thrillin', but I've got something more important needin' my attention this evenin'--meanin' that I ain't got nothin' in particular that's a-callin' me! But it's no more'n my plain duty for me to tell you this: You'd ought to follow the papers a mite closer from now on. It's illuminatin'--it's broadenin'! What you need, gentlemen, is a trifle wider readin'--jest a trifle--jest a trifle! For you ain't bein' well posted on facts!" Nobody moved. Nobody was capable of stirring even. Old Jerry bowed to them from the doorway--he bowed till the water trickled in a stream from the brim of his battered hat. And this time, as he passed out, he closed the door very gently behind him. CHAPTER XI It would have been hard for her to have explained just why it was so, but Dryad Anderson had been sitting there in the unlighted front room of the little once-white cottage before Judge Maynard's boxlike place on the hill, watching hour after hour for that light to blink out at her from the dark window of Denny Bolton's house on the opposite slope. Ever since it had grown dark enough for that signal to be seen, which had called across to her so many nights, she had been waiting before the table in front of the window--waiting even while she told herself that it could not appear. It was not Saturday night; there was no real reason why she should be watching, unless--unless it was hope that held her there.