“What has he been doing, Nellie?” asked the judge, who felt that his callers had so far lacked in directness and definiteness.

“What ain’t he been doing, you’d better say, Judge!” cried Nellie miserably.

“Is he abusing you or the children?”

“I don’t see him from one week’s end to another!”

“Am I to understand that he has deserted you?” questioned the judge.

“No, I can’t say that, for he sends his clothes home for me to wash and mend.”

“Ain’t that the human sufferin’ limit?” gasped Mr. Shrimplin.

“I suppose you wash and mend them?” And the judge smiled faintly.

“Of course,” admitted Mrs. Montgomery simply.

“Does he contribute anything toward your support?” asked the judge.

The woman laughed sarcastically at this.

“It takes a barkeeper to pry Joe loose from his coin,” interjected Mr. Shrimplin.  “Get down to details, Nellie, and tell the judge what kind of a critter you’re hitched up to.”

“He told Arthur, that’s my oldest boy, if I didn’t stop bothering him, that he was just man enough to pay five dollars for the fun of knocking the front off my face!”

“That was a choice one to hand out to an eldest son, wasn’t it, your Honor?” said the little lamplighter, tugging at his flaxen mustache.

“I just manage to keep a roof over our heads,” went on Nellie, “and without any thanks to him; but he has plenty of money, and where it comes from I’d like to know, for he ain’t done a lick of work in weeks!”

“Fact, Judge!” remarked Mr. Shrimplin.  “I’ve made it my business lately to keep one eye on Joe.  He spends half his time loafin’ at Andy Gilmore’s rooms, and the other half gettin’ pickled.”

“What do you wish me to do?” asked the judge, addressing himself to Mrs. Montgomery.

“I wish, Judge, that you’d send word to him that you want to see him!”

“And toss a good healthy scare into him!” added Mr. Shrimplin aggressively.

“But he might not care to respect the summons; there is no reason why he should,” explained the judge.

“If he knows you want to see him, he’ll come here fast enough!” said Nellie.

The judge turned to Shrimplin.

“Will you tell him this, Shrimplin, the first time you see him?”

“Won’t I!” said the little lamplighter.  “Certainly, Judge—­certainly!” and his agile fancy had already clothed the message in verbiage that should terrify the delinquent Joe.

“Very well, then; but beyond giving him a word of advice and warning; I can do nothing.”

A night or two later, as the judge, who had spent the evening at Colonel Harbison’s, came to his own gate, he saw a slouching figure detach itself from the shadows near his front door and advance to meet him midway of the graveled path that led to the street.  It was Joe Montgomery.

“Well, my man!” said the judge, with some little show of sternness.  “I suppose you received my message?”