Further than that, more extraordinary, more incomprehensible, having immediately recognized the governor as one of the two offenders, the judge had dared to reprimand him precisely as if he were an ordinary citizen; possibly with a trifle more caustic severity. And Nat Wiggin was altogether too shrewd and long-headed not to realize that a single word from the chief executive of the State would be almost certain to blast his political ambitions. Nevertheless, a little calm thought would have led Wiggin’s neighbors there assembled to realize that his fearless action was precisely what they might have expected of him. Never in his life had he played the toady, and he was not a person to cringe in the presence of power and pomp. “Without fear or favor” was his motto, and, right or wrong, he adhered to it. Hard-headed and obstinate he might be, but he was not inconsistent. The spectators crowded forward on tiptoe, gaping, almost aghast. Frowning and grim, his face purple with anger, the governor stared at the judge. Calm and unperturbed as a June morning, the latter announced that court was adjourned, and rose from his seat. Trembling with deepest indignation, the governor’s secretary pulled at his elbow. “Come,” urged Hitchens in a low tone, “let’s get out before I lose control of myself and twist that old lunatic’s nose.” “I don’t think you’d better try that, here or elsewhere, under any provocation,” returned the chief executive. “I’ve a notion he’d take as much pleasure in fighting as in fining a speeder.” They turned toward the stairs, the spectators, still staring wide-eyed, clattering back to open a lane through which they could pass. Weeping Buzzell was ahead of them, galvanized into unusual and amazing activity. “Make way for the governor!” he snuffled, waving his arms. Down the stairs in advance he stumped, bursting with eagerness to carry the news to those apathetic townsmen who had not been drawn by curiosity to the courtroom. Marvelous and incredible was the swiftness with which that news spread. Small boys carried it, scurrying. The governor had been nabbed for breaking the speed limit; Judge Wiggin had reprimanded and fined him. Villagers of both sexes and all ages came hurrying toward Turner’s store, anxious to get a glimpse of the notable who had met such summary and impartial treatment at the hands of the “jedge.” Hitchens saw them assembling. “Let’s get out of this hole,” he urged. “All the jays in the town will be here in less than ten minutes.” He made for the automobile, which stood in front of the store, headed down the street. “We’ve got to find George,” said the governor, following. “It’s odd he hasn’t shown up. Wonder what’s become of him.” As they paused irresolutely beside the motor car the judge, having issued forth, approached. There was nothing placating or apologetic in his manner, nor did he wear an offensive, defiant air.