“All right, Jeff!” said Judge Priest. “I'll be there in a minute.” Then, turning to me: “Son-boy, hadn't you better stay here fur supper with me? I expect there's vittles enough fur two. Come on--I'll make Jeff run over to your house and tell your mother I kept you to supper with me.” After that memorable supper with Judge Priest--all the meals I ever took as his guest were memorable events and still are--ensues a lapse, to be measured by years, before I heard the second chapter of what might be called the tale of Mr. Felsburg's legs. I heard it one evening in the Judge's sitting room. A squeak had come into my voice, and there was a suspicion of down--a mere trace, as the chemists say--on my upper lip. I was in the second week of proud incumbency of my first regular job. I had gone to work on the _Daily Evening News_--the cubbiest of cub reporters, green as a young gourd, but proud as Potiphar over my new job and my new responsibilities. This time it was professional duty rather than the social instinct that took me to the old Judge's house. I had been charged by my editor to get from him divers litigatious facts relating to a decision he had that day rendered in the circuit court where he presided. The information having been vouchsafed, the talk took a various trend. Somewhere in the course of it Mr. Felsburg's name came up and my memory ran back like a spark along a tarred string to that other day when he had promised to relate to me an episode connected with certain small scars on those two bandy legs of our leading clothing merchant. The present occasion seemed fitting for hearing this long-delayed narrative. I reminded my host of his olden promise; and between puffs at his corncob pipe he told me the thing which I retell here and now, except that, for purposes of convenience, I have translated the actual wording of it out of Judge Priest's vernacular into my own. So doing, it devolves upon me, first off, to introduce into the main theme a character not heretofore mentioned--a man named Thomas Albritton, a farmer in our country, and at one period a prosperous one. He lived, while he lived--for he has been dead a good while now--six miles from town, on the Massac Creek Road. He lived there all his days. His father before him had cleared the timber off the land and built the two-room log house of squared logs, with the open “gallery” between. With additions, the house grew in time to be a rambling, roomy structure, but from first to last it kept its identity; and even after the last of the old tenants died off or moved off, and new tenants moved in, it was still known as the Albritton place. For all I know to the contrary, it yet goes by that name.