As sanguine as he was sanguinary he confidently
expected to survive the encounter, yet it was well to provide for
a possible emergency--had he not his grandson's future to
consider? While thus occupied he saw the afternoon stage arrive
and depart from before the City Tavern.
Half an hour later Mr. Wesley, the postmaster, came sauntering up
the street. In his hand he carried a letter.
"Howdy," he drawled, from just beyond the judge's open door.
The judge glanced up, his quill pen poised aloft.
"Good evening, sir; won't you step inside and be seated?" he
asked graciously. His dealings with the United States mail
service were of the most insignificant description, and in
personally delivering a letter, if this was what had brought him
there, he felt Mr. Wesley had reached the limit of official
courtesy and despatch.
"Well, sir; it looks like you'd never told us more than
two-thirds of the truth!" said the postmaster. He surveyed the
judge curiously.
"I am complimented by your opinion of my veracity," responded
that gentleman promptly. "I consider two-thirds an enormously
high per cent to have achieved."
"There is something in that, too," agreed Mr. Wesley. "Who is
Colonel Slocum Price Turberville?"
The judge started up from his chair.
"I have that honor," said he, bowing.
"Well, here's a letter come in addressed like that, and as you've
been using part of the name I am willing to assume you're legally
entitled to the rest of it.
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