“No; statements allus got to be writ in ink. An’ make as nice a copy as you can.” He left her, closing the door softly behind him. Outside, he drew a key from his pocket, noiselessly fitted it into the lock and turned it. Then he re-entered the courtroom on a run, lifted one edge of the flag, disclosing a telephone, rang the bell twice, listened, rang it again, asked for his number in a low voice, and when the reply came began to speak with decision: “Homer, this is Gid. Run up for a minute. Yas, it’s important. I must see you. Can’t tell you over the ’phone. But don’t you wait--come. All right.” Then he hung up, rang for a second number--the constable’s--gave some quick directions and, having drawn the flag into place over the telephone, sat down. He waited, bowed over in his chair, with his elbows upon the arms of it, and his head supported by his hands. But when the rickety sidewalk gave warning of an oncomer he straightened, and smiled in welcome as Homer entered the door. “Wal, here you are,” he said by way of salutation. Homer flung himself into a chair before the Judge’s desk, fanning himself with his hat. His thin face was tense, like the face of a man under a strain. “Boy, this is what I want to say: Don’t josh Mrs. Luce.” Homer crimsoned. His hat fell to his knee. “Mrs. Luce is crazy!” he burst forth. “She’s been tellin’ me how you hung on to her nuggets. Give ’em back to her, boy. She’s got a bad tongue.” “Her nuggets! What does she mean? She needs her brain examined.” “You ain’t got ’em, Homer?” “Of course I haven’t got ’em. I don’t believe she ever had any. Did you ever see ’em?” “No.” “What on earth could I do with a string of nuggets?” His chest heaved angrily. “Good collateral,” said the Judge, “case a man needed money.” “I don’t need money.” He said it sullenly, and shifted in his chair. “Come to me when you do, boy.” There was a long silence. The elder man sat, his grave look fixed on the younger, who crossed and uncrossed his feet and wiped at his forehead and neck with a folded silk handkerchief. “How’s your work comin’?” inquired the Judge presently. He took up a pen and began to write. “Oh, pretty good.” “I reckon Mister Fruit-Buyer is satisfied, hey? He couldn’t find a better man than you for the place, anyhow.” “Oh, he’s satisfied, I guess. But I don’t think I--I care to hang on to the job.” “No?” The Judge thrust a sheet of paper into a pocket. “How long’s Carpenter stayin’ over this time?” “Till the down train.” “That so? Wal!” He paused a moment, examining the end of his pen. “Say, you don’t wear your Business College medal no more.” “I carry it in my pocket.” “I see. Got it now? I like to take a peep at it ev’ry once in a while.” The younger man reached into a vest pocket and drew forth a small silver piece, shield-shaped and engraved. He handed it across the desk.