proud beat of his heart. Fifteen minutes later when the
convention adjourned for noon, Nathan and Morty Sands ran plumb into
Thomas Van Dorn, sitting in the back room of the bank, wet eyed and
blubbering. The Judge was slumped over the big, shining table, his jaws
trembling, his hands fumbling the ink stands and paper weights. His eyes
were staring and nervous, and beside him a whiskey bottle and glass told
their story. The man rose, holding the table, and shrieked:

"You damned little fice dog, you--" this to Morty, "you--you--" Morty
dashed around the table toward the Judge, but before he could reach the
man to strike, the Judge was moving his jaws impotently, and grasping
the thin air. His mouth foamed as he fell and he lay, a shivering,
white-eyed horror, upon the floor. The bank clerks lifted the figure to
a leather couch, and some one summoned Doctor Nesbit.

The Doctor saw the whiskey bottle half emptied and saw the white faced,
prostrate figure. The Doctor sent the clerks from the room as he worked
with the unconscious man, and piped to Morty as he worked, "Nothing
serious--heat--temper, whiskey--and vanity and vexation of spirit;
'vanity of vanities--all is vanity--saith the preacher.'" Morty and
Nathan left the room as the man's eyes opened and the Doctor with a
woman's tenderness brought the wretched, broken, shattered bundle of
pride back to consciousness.

For years this became George Brotherton's favorite story. He first told
it to Henry Fenn thus:

"Say, Henry, lemme tell you about old man Sands. He come in here the day
after he got back from Chicago to wrestle with me for letting Morty vote
against Tom. Well--say--I'm right here to tell you that was some do--all
right, all right! You know he thought I got Morty and Nate to vote that
way and the old spider came hopping in here like a granddaddy long-legs
and the way he let out on your humble--well, say--say! Holler--you'd
orto heard him holler! Just spat pizen--wow! and as for me who'd got the
lad into the trouble--as for me," Mr. Brotherton paused, folded his hand
over his expansive abdomen and sighed deeply, as one who recalls an
experience too deep for language. "Well, say--I tried to tell him I
didn't have anything to do with it, but he was wound up with an
eight-day spring! I knew it was no use to talk sense to him while he was
batting his lights at me like a drunk switchman on a dark night, but
when he was clean run down I leans over the counter