The judge started up from his chair.

“I have that honor,” said he, bowing.

“Well, here’s a letter come in addressed like that, and as you’ve been using part of the name I am willing to assume you’re legally entitled to the rest of it.  It clears up a point that off and on has troubled me considerable.  I can only wonder I wa’n’t smarter;”

“What point, may I ask?”

“Why, about the time you hung out your shingle here, some one wrote a letter to General Jackson.  It was mailed after night, and when I seen it in the morning I was clean beat.  I couldn’t locate the handwriting and yet I kept that letter back a couple of days and give it all my spare time.  It ain’t that I’m one of your spying sort—­there’s nothing of the Yankee about me!”

“Certainly not,” agreed the judge.

“Candid, Judge, I reckon you wrote that letter, seeing this one comes under a frank from Washington.  No, sir—­I couldn’t make out who was corresponding with the president and it worried me, not knowing, more than anything I’ve had to contend against since I came into office.  I calculate there ain’t a postmaster in the United States takes a more personal interest in the service than me.  I’ve frequently set patrons right when they was in doubt as to the date they had mailed such and such ƒ letter.”  As Mr. Wesley sometimes canceled as many as three or four stamps in a single day he might have been pardoned his pride in a brain which thus lightly dealt with the burden of official business.  He surrendered the letter with marked reluctance.

“Your surmise is correct,” said the judge with dignity.  “I had occasion to write my friend, General Jackson, and unless I am greatly mistaken I have my answer here.”  And with a fine air of indifference he tossed the letter on the table.

“And do you know Old Hickory?” cried Mr. Wesley.

“Why not?  Does it surprise you?” inquired the judge.  It was only his innate courtesy which restrained him from kicking the postmaster into the street, so intense was his desire to be rid of him.

“No, I don’t know as it does, judge.  Naturally a public man like him is in the way of meeting with all sorts.  A politician can’t afford to be too blame particular.  Well, next time you write you might just send him my regards—­G.  W. M. de L. Wesley’s regards—­there was considerable contention over my getting this office; I reckon he ain’t forgot.  There was speeches made, I understand the lie was passed between two United States senators, and that a quid of tobacco was throwed in anger.”  Having thus clearly established the fact that he was a more or less national character, Mr. Wesley took himself off.

When he had disappeared from sight down the street, the judge closed the door.  Then he picked up the letter.  For along minute he held it in his hand, uncertain, fearful, while his mind slipped back into the past until his inward searching vision ferreted out a handsome soldierly figure—­his own.