“Let me look at that circular,” directed Judge Pollak.  He took it from Mr. Tutt’s eager hand, glanced through it and turned sharply upon the quaking Chippingham.

“How long have you been attorney for Scherer, Hunn, Greenbaum & Beck?”

“Twelve years, Your Honor.”

“Who is Wilson W. Elderberry?”

“He is the secretary of the Horse’s Neck Extension, Your Honor.”

“Is he in court?”

From a distant corner Mr. Elderberry bashfully rose.

“Come here!” ordered the court.  And the Pooh-Bah of the
Scherer-Hunn-Greenbaum-Beck enterprises came cringing to the bar.

“Did you sign this circular in 1914?” demanded Judge Pollak.

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Were the statements contained in it true?”

Elderberry squirmed.

“Ye-es, Your Honor.  That is—­they were to the best of my knowledge and belief.  I was, of course, obliged to take what information was at hand—­and—­er—­and—­”

“Did you sign the other circular, issued last month, to the effect that the mine was practically valueless?”

“Yes, sir.”  Elderberry studiously examined the moldings on the cornice of the judge’s canopy.

“Um!” remarked the court significantly.

There was a flurry among the tall hats.  Then Mr. Greenbaum sprang to his feet.

“If you please, Your Honor,” he announced, staccato, “we entirely disavow Mr. Elderberry’s circular of 1914.  It was issued without our knowledge or authority.  It is no evidence that the mine was worth ten millions or any other amount at that time.”

“Oh!  Oh!” choked Mr. Tutt, while Miss Wiggin giggled delightedly into her brief case.

Judge Pollak bent upon Mr. Greenbaum a withering glance.

“Did your firm sell any of its holdings in Horse’s Neck after the issuance of that circular?”

Greenbaum hesitated.  He would have liked to wring that judge’s neck.

“Why—­how do I know?  We may have.”

“Did you?”

“Say ‘yes,’ for God’s sake,” hissed Chippingham “or you’ll land in the pen!”

“I am informed that we did,” answered Greenbaum defiantly.  “That is, I don’t say we did.  Very likely we did.  Our books would show.  But I repeat—­we disavow this circular and we deny any responsibility for this man, Elderberry.”

This man, Elderberry, who for twelve long years had writhed under the biting lash of his employer’s tongue, hating him with a hatred known only to those in subordinate positions who are bribed to suffer the “whips and scorns of time, the oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,” quivered and saw red.  He was going to be made the goat!  They expected him to take all the responsibility and give them a clean slate!  The nerve of it!  To hell with them!  Suddenly he began to cry, shockingly, with deep stertorous suspirations.

“No—­you won’t!” he hiccuped.  “You shan’t lay the blame on me!  I’ll tell the truth, I will!  I won’t stand for it!  Your Honor, they want to reorganize Horse’s Neck because they think there’s a vein in Amphalula that crosses one of the old workings and that it’ll make the property worth millions and millions.”