“In order to be on the right side and make allowance for delays here and
there, we ought to leave here tomorrow, Judge Kingsley. And even then
we’d be having hours for a margin--not days. I felt pretty good when I
heard Pratt say that he had Dawlin’s money along. I figured there would
be more between the two of ’em.”
“Then it’s all over, is it? We’re beaten, eh?”
“What do _you_ think?”
“I think we are.”
“Well, sir,” I said, “you and I have always seemed to make more progress
when I take the opposite side in an argument. I predict that we shall
win out. Please hand over that money.”
“The money is mine--it was stolen from me. You’re too reckless to handle
money. We’re beaten, I tell you. I’ll send that money home to my wife
and daughter. It’s something for them to live on. I’ll kill myself out
here.”
Judge Kingsley put both hands over his breast pocket. He was hysterical.
There was no reasoning with him and so I rose from the bed, walked
across the room, and snapped a finger under his nose. Zebulon Kingsley
must not have money in his pocket--in that case I could not handle him
or trust him to stay with me!
“Give--me--that--money!”
He stared and groaned and obeyed.
I divided the bills into packets, tucked them into my various pockets,
and walked out of the room.
“This money needs an airing,” I informed the judge. “I’ll take it
outdoors and give it one. It has been in some mighty bad company.”