He was not long left in doubt. The sheriff stepped to
his side and dropped a heavy hand on his shoulder.
"Mr. Slocum Price, or whatever your name is, your little game is
up!"
"Get the well-rope! Oh, hell--won't some one get the well-rope?"
The voice rose into a wail of entreaty.
The judge's eyes, rather startled, slid around in their sockets.
Clearly something was wrong--but what--what?
"Ain't he bold?" it was a woman's voice this time, and the fat
landlady, her curls awry and her plump breast heaving
tumultuously, gained a place in the forefront of the crowd.
"Dear madam, this is an unexpected pleasure!" said the judge,
with his hand upon his heart.
"Don't you make your wicked old sheep's eyes at me, you brazen
thing!" cried the lady.
"You're wanted," said the sheriff grimly, still keeping his hand
on the judge's shoulder.
"For what?" demanded the judge thickly. The sheriff had no time
in which to answer.
"I want my money!" shrieked the landlady.
"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.
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