He was aghast.  It was a plot to discredit him.  Pegloe’s hospitality had been inspired by his enemy, for Pegloe was Fentress’ tenant.

Again he attacked the door; he believed it might be possible to force it from its hinges, but Pegloe had done his work too well for that, and at last, spent and breathless, the judge dropped down on the edge of his bed to consider the situation.  He was without clothes and he was a prisoner, yet his mind rose splendidly to meet the difficulties that beset him.  His greatest activities were reserved for what appeared to be only a season of despair.  He armed himself with a threelegged stool he had found and turned once more to the door, but the stout planks stood firm under his blows.

“Unless I get out of here in time I’m a ruined man!” thought the judge.  “After this Fentress will refuse to meet me!”

The window next engaged his attention.  That, too, Pegloe had taken the precaution to fasten, but a single savage blow of the stool shattered glass and sash and left an empty space that framed the dawn’s red glow.  The judge looked out and shook his head dubiously.  It was twelve feet or more to the ground, a risky drop for a gentleman of his years and build.  The judge considered making a rope of his bedding and lowering himself to the ground by means of it, he remembered to have read of captives in that interesting French prison, the Bastille, who did this.  However, an equally ingenious but much more simple use for his bedding occurred to him; it would form a soft and yielding substance on which to alight.  He gathered it up into his arms, feather-tick and all, and pushed it through the window, then he wriggled out across the ledge, feet first, and lowering himself to the full length of his arms, dropped.

He landed squarely on the rolled-up bed with a jar that shook him to his center.  Almost gaily he snatched up a quilt, draping it about him after the manner of a Roman, toga, and thus lightly habited, started across Mr. Pegloe’s truck-patch, his one thought Boggs’ and the sun.  It would have served no purpose to have gone home, since his entire wardrobe, except for the shirt on his back, was in the tavern-keeper’s possession, besides he had not a moment to lose, for the sun was peeping at him over the horizon.

Unobserved he gained the edge of the town and the highroad that led past Boggs’ and stole a fearful glance over his shoulder.  The sun was clear of the treetops, he could even feel the lifeless dust grow warm beneath his feet; and wrapping the quilt closer about him he broke into a labored run.

Some twenty minutes later Boggs’ came in sight.  He experienced a moment of doubt—­suppose Fentress had been there and gone!  It was a hideous thought and the judge groaned.  Then at the other end of the meadow near the woods he distinguished several men, Fentress and his friends beyond question.  The judge laughed aloud.  In spite of everything he was keeping his engagement, he was plucking his triumph out of the very dregs of failure.  The judge threw himself over the fence, a corner of the quilt caught on one of the rails; he turned to release it, and in that instant two pistol shots rang out sharply in the morning air.