“It don’t amount to much, what I’m a-goin’ to say,” proceeded the Judge, “because I know blamed well that you ain’t doin’ what they say you’re doin’.” “‘They’ is usually a liar.” “But sometimes, ‘Where there’s smoke there’s fire’--as the sayin’ goes. In this case there’s just enough smoke to worry me.” “Oh, I wouldn’t worry if I was you. What’s your gossip?” The hand that was resting on the younger man’s shoulder dropped to the Judge’s side. “Folks say you’re gamblin’.” There was scarcely a noticeable paling of Homer’s face, but a sneer curved his mouth. “Gambling!” he repeated. “I’ll bet you got that yarn from a woman.” “Yas,” admitted the Judge. “If you’re going to believe every little bit of tittle-tattle that the women tell you, you won’t have much time for your books.” “Homer,” said the Judge sternly, “you’re pretty close to bein’ sassy to the best friend you’ve got in the hull world, barrin’ your maw.” “You’re finding fault with me. And I hate to be picked at. I’m not a kid any more, to be followed and watched and whistled into the house at sundown. I’m a man.” “Wal, act like a man then.” “I will if you’ll let me alone. Gambling! Wouldn’t it make you sick! As if a nickel ante hurts anybody! I’ll let this town know that I earn my money and I’ve got a right to do what I please with it.” “Long as you don’t hurt your maw.” “She’ll be ready to jump on me, I suppose, when I go home to-night.” “Or as long as you don’t hurt--Alicia.” “Alicia? Huh!”--sullenly--“she don’t care anything about me.” “That’s where you’re mistaken, boy. She likes you, Homer, an’ you like her--don’t you?” He lowered his head, searching the face of the other. “Yes, of course. But she’s just like the rest of the women in this town. They’re all backwoods, that’s what they are--backwoods. If they’d ever been outside of Manzanita, and seen something, they wouldn’t be so confounded narrow. They don’t want to have any fun themselves and they don’t want anybody else to have any. I never saw such a place!” The Judge sighed and turned to the door. “Mebbe it’d a-been better if I hadn’t opened my mouth,” he said. “But--it seemed serious, kinda. So long, Homer.” He went out, his hands in the outer pockets of his coat, his head down. That night, no light burned until a late hour on the unpainted desk in the place of Justice. After supper, young Judge Gideon Carr strolled down to the Occidental and sprinkled the ashes of his pipe upon the only stretch of cement sidewalk in town. And ten o’clock found him still there, tipped back against the wall beside the high swinging doors that screened the barroom from passers-by in the street.