nderstand he holds the mortgages of some of them," said Wetherell.

"Shouldn't blame him a great deal ef he did git tired and sell Chester
out soon. This thing happens regular as leap year."

"Jethro Bass doesn't seem to frighten you," said the storekeeper.

"Well," said Lem, "I hain't afeard of him, that's so. For the life of me,
I can't help likin' him, though he does things that I wouldn't do for all
the power in Christendom. Here's Jedge Parkinson's house."

Wetherell remained in the wagon while Lemuel went in to transact his
business. The judge's house, outlined in the starlight, was a modest
dwelling with a little porch and clambering vines, set back in its own
garden behind a picket fence. Presently, from the direction of the lines
of light in the shutters, came the sound of voices, Lem's deep and
insistent, and another, pitched in a high nasal key, deprecatory and
protesting. There was still another, a harsh one that growled something
unintelligible, and Wetherell guessed, from the fragments which he heard,
that the judge before sitting down to his duty was trying to dissuade the
stage driver from a step that was foolhardy. He guessed likewise that Lem
was not to be dissuaded. At length a silence followed, then the door
swung open, and three figures came down the illuminated path.

"Like to make you acquainted with Jedge Abner Parkinson, Mr. Wetherell,
and Jim Irving. Jim's the sheriff of Truro County, and I guess the jedge
don't need any recommendation as a lawyer from me. You won't mind stayin'
awhile with the jedge while Jim and I go down town with the team? You're
both literary folks."

Wetherell followed the judge into the house. He was sallow, tall and
spare and stooping, clean-shaven, with a hooked nose and bright eyes--the
face of an able and adroit man, and he wore the long black coat of the
politician-lawyer. The room was filled with books, and from these Judge
Parkinson immediately took his cue, probably through a fear that
Wetherell might begin on the subject of Lemuel's errand. However, it
instantly became plain that the judge was a true book lover, and despite
the fact that Lem's visit had disturbed him not a little, he soon grew
animated in a discussion on the merits of Sir Walter Scott, paced the
room, pitched his nasal voice higher and higher, covered his table with
volumes of that author to illustrate his meaning. Neither of them heard a
knock, and they both stared dumfounded at the man who