of the past few days.

The central chair supported the large presence of "Judge" Fulsom, who
was dispensing both information and tobacco juice.

"The practice of the legal profession," said the Judge, after a brief
period devoted to the ruminative processes, "is full of surprises."

Having spoken, Judge Fulsom folded his fat hands across the somewhat
soiled expanse of his white waistcoat and relapsed into a weighty
silence.

"They was sayin' over to the post office this evening that the young
woman that cleaned up the church fair has bought the old Bolton
place. How about it, Jedge?"

Judge Fulsom grunted, as he leveled a displeased stare upon the
speaker, a young farmer with a bibulous eye and slight swagger of
defiance. At the proper moment, with the right audience, the Judge
was willing to impart information with lavish generosity. But any
attempt to force his hand was looked upon as a distinct infringement
of his privilege.

"You want to keep your face shut, Lute, till th' Jedge gets ready to
talk," counseled a middle-aged man who sat tilted back in the next
chair. "Set down, son, and cool off."

"Well, you see I got to hurry along," objected the young farmer
impatiently, "and I wanted to know if there was anything in it. Our
folks had money in the old bank, an' we'd give up getting anything