“Never mind that,” interrupted the older man sharply. “The other business will have to wait. I have a curiosity to see just how Judge Wiggin handles cases of this sort.” “Your cur’osity,” assured Deputy Sheriff Newberry, swinging open the tonneau door, “will be satisfied. Git in, boys!” When the three men had all piled into the rear of the car the one in command directed Hitchens to drive straight down the long main street of the town, and proceeded slowly. Their appearance in the village was the signal for various inhabitants who observed them to grin and wag their heads, making uncomplimentary and derisive remarks, while a number of small boys, hooting and laughing, assembled and followed the car as far as Turner’s grocery, over which, in a bare and sparsely furnished room, Judge Wiggin dispensed justice by mulcting the unfortunate speeders who were arraigned before him. A number of idle citizens, who had been gossiping and swapping stories on the store steps, rose at once and followed the prisoners, conducted by Newberry and Buzzell, up the narrow back stairs to the “courtroom.” Jeremiah Small had been sent to fetch the judge. The automobilists were given chairs facing a table which served as a desk, and an anæmic-looking young man in horn-rimmed spectacles seated himself at the table and began making out the complaint, having first questioned Buzzell about the speed which the offenders had been making when they ran into the trap. “Your name?” inquired the clerk, turning to the older man. “Put down John Doe,” said the latter, “and Richard Roe,” he added, nodding toward his companion. “I am the owner of the car. Richard was driving when we were held up.” The younger man gave him a queer look, and leaned closer, whispering something behind his hand. The answer was a grim smile and a shake of the head. After slight hesitation, the clerk wrote down the names as given. The sound of heavy steps on the stairs preceded the entrance of Constable Small, who announced that the judge was out somewhere, but that Willie Baker and Nubby Snell had been sent scouting to find him. “I never heard of such an outrage!” exploded the intensely annoyed Hitchens. “Somebody is going to regret this imposition. Time is valuable to us, and——” “Don’t git flustered and fly off the handle, mister,” advised Deputy Newberry, twisting off a quid of War Horse with his teeth and stowing it, bulging, into his cheek with a tongue made dexterous by long practice. “It won’t joggle things along no faster, and I ca’late you’ll be the one to do the regrettin’ if you go shootin’ off a lot of loose talk. If you git sassy before the jedge, I warn ye now that it’ll prob’ly land ye in the caboose. ‘Go slow’ is a motter it’s best to toiler around here.” “Why don’t you tell them something?” persisted Hitchens, again appealing to his companion. “What talking I decide to do will be done to the judge himself,” said the older man.