"Shucks, he's nothing but an old windbag!" said Mr. Pegloe to a
group of loungers gathered before his tavern in the early
evening.
As he spoke, the judge's door opened and that gentleman appeared
on his threshold with a lighted candle in each hand. Glancing
neither to the right nor the left he passed out and up the
street. Not a breath of wind was blowing and the flames of the
two candles burnt clear and strong, lighting up his stately
advance.
At the corner of the court-house green stood a row of locust
hitching posts. Two of these the judge decorated with his
candles, next he measured off fifteen paces, strides as liberal
as he could make them without sacrifice to his dignity; he scored
a deep line in the dust with the heel of his boot, toed it
squarely, and drew himself up to his fullest height. His right
hand was seen to disappear under the frayed tails of his coat, it
reappeared and was raised with a movement quicker than the eye
could follow and a pistol shot rang out. One of the candles was
neatly snuffed.
The judge allowed himself a covert glance in the direction of the
loungers before the tavern. He was aware that a larger audience
was assembling. A slight smile relaxed the firm set of his lips.
The remaining candle sputtered feebly. The judge walked to the
post and cleared the wick from tallow with his thumb-nail. There
was no haste in any of his movements; his was the deliberation of
conscious efficiency.
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