“Your money--Mrs. Walker, you amaze me!” The judge drew himself up haughtily, in genuine astonishment. “I want my money!” repeated Mrs. Walker in even more piercing tones. “I am not aware that I owe you anything, madam. Thank God, I hold your receipted bill of recent date,” answered the judge with chilling dignity. “Good money--not this worthless trash!” she shook a bill under his nose. The judge recognized it as the one of which he had despoiled Hannibal. “You have been catched passing counterfeit,” said the sheriff. A light broke on the judge, a light that dazzled and stunned. An officious and impatient gentleman tossed a looped end of the well-rope about his neck and the crowd yelled excitedly. This was something like--it had a taste for the man-hunt! The sheriff snatched away the rope and dealt the officious gentleman a savage blow on the chin that sent him staggering backward into the arms of his friends. “Now, see here, now--I'm going to arrest this old faller! I am going to put him in jail, and I ain't going to have no nonsense--do you hear me?” he expostulated. “I can explain--” cried the judge. “Make him give me my money!” wailed Mrs Walker. “Jezebel!” roared the judge, in a passion of rage. “Ca'm's the word, or you'll get 'em started!” whispered the sheriff. The judge looked fearfully around. At his side stood Mahaffy, a yellow pallor splotching his thin cheeks. He seemed to be holding himself there by an effort. “Speak to them, Solomon--speak to them--you know how I came by the money! Speak to them--you know I am innocent!” cried the judge, clutching his friend by the arm. Mahaffy opened his thin lips, but the crowd drowned his voice in a roar. “He's his partner--” “There's no evidence against him,” said the sheriff. A tall fellow, in a fringed hunting-shirt, shook a long finger under Mahaffy's aquiline nose. “You scoot--that's what--you make tracks! And if we ever see your ugly face about here again, we'll--” “You'll what?” inquired Mahaffy. “We'll fix you out with feathers that won't molt, that's what!” Mr. Mahaffy seemed to hesitate. His lean hands opened and closed, and he met the eyes of the crowd with a bitter, venomous stare. Some one gave him a shove and he staggered forward a step, snapping out a curse. Before he could recover himself the shove was repeated. “Lope on out of here!” yelled the tall fellow, who had first challenged his right to remain in Pleasantville or its environs. As the crowd fell apart to make way for him, willing hands were extended to give him the needed impetus, and without special volition of his own.