“has your uncle a telephone?” the justice asked, not unkindly.
“no, sir,” said westy. “anyway, i wouldn’t want to telephone him.”
“could you get your father in bridgeboro by ’phone?”
“he’d be in new york, and anyway, i don’t want to ’phone him.”
“hum,” mused the judge. “well, i’m afraid i haven’ much choice then, my boy. the fine for what you did is a hundred dollars. i’ll have to turn you over to the sheriff, then perhaps i’ll get in communication——”
westy’s sweaty, trembling hand came up out of his pocket bringing his treasure with it. boyishly, he did not even think to remove the elastic band which was around the roll of bills, but laid the whole thing upon the justice’s desk.
“here—here it is,” he said nervously, “—to—to pay for what i did. there’s more than what you said—there’s three dollars more.”
there was a touch of pathos in the innocence which was ready to pay the fine with extra measure—and to throw in an elastic band as well. farmer sands looked shrewdly suspicious as the justice removed the elastic band and counted the money; he seemed on the point of hinting that westy might have stolen it.
“where did you get this?” the justice asked, visibly touched at the sight of the little roll that westy had handed over.
“i had about twenty-five dollars when i came,” said westy, “and the rest my uncle paid me for working for him on his farm.”
“there seems to be three dollars too much,” the justice said, handing that amount back to westy. the boy took it nervously and said, “thank you.”
the crumpled bills and the elastic band lay in a disorderly little heap on the justice’s desk, and the local official, who seemed very human, contemplated them ruefully. perhaps he felt a little twinge of meanness. then he rubbed his chin ruminatively and studied westy.
the culprit moved from one foot to the other and nervously replaced the trifling remainder of his fortune in his trousers pocket. he was afraid that now something was going to happen to spoil his good turn. he hoped that the justice would not ask him any more questions.
“well, my young friend,” said that dignitary finally, “you’ve had a lesson in what it means to defy the law. i blame it to that rifle you have there more than to you. does your father know you have that rifle?”
“yes, sir.”
“approves of it, eh?”
“n-no, sir; i promised him i wouldn’t shoot at anything but a target.”
“and you broke your promise?”
“yes, sir.”
still the judge studied him. “well,” said he, after a pause, “i don’t think you’re a bad sort of a boy. i think you just saw that deer and couldn’t refrain from shooting him. i think you felt like buffalo bill, now didn’t you?”
“i—yes—i—i don’t know how buffalo bill felt,” said westy.
“and if mr. sands hadn’t got in touch with mr. terry and found that deer, you would have gone back home thinking you’d done a fine, heroic thing, eh?”
westy did think he had done a good thing but he didn’t say so.
“but you had the honesty to confess when you saw that an innocent man was about to be arrested. and that’s what makes me think that you’re a not half-bad sort of a youngster.”
westy shifted from one foot to the other but said nothing.
“you just forgot your promise when you saw that deer.”
“i didn’t forget it, i just broke it,” said westy
“well, now,” said the judge, “you’ve had your little fling at wild west stuff, you’ve killed your deer and paid the penalty and you see it isn’t so much fun after all. you see where it brings you. now i want you to go home and tell your father that you shot a deer out of season and that it cost you a cold hundred dollars. see?”
“yes, sir,” said westy.
“you ask him if he thinks that pays. and you tell him i said for him to take that infernal toy away from you before you shoot somebody or other’s little brother or sister—or your own mother, maybe.”
westy winced.
“if i were your father instead of justice of the peace here, i’d take that gun away from you and give you a good trouncing and set you to reading the right kind of books—that’s what i’d do.”
“i wouldn’ leave no young un of mine carry no hundred dollars in his pockets, nuther,” volunteered farmer sands.
“well, it’s good he had it,” said the justice, “or i’d have had to commit him.” then turning to westy, he said, “maybe that hundred dollars is well spent if it taught you a lesson. you go along home now and tell your father what i said. and you tell him i said that a rifle is not only a dangerous thing but a pretty expensive thing to keep.”
“yes, sir,” said westy.
“are you sorry for what you did?”
“as long as i paid the fine do i have to answer more questions?” asked westy.
“well, you remember what i’ve said.”
“yes, sir,” said westy.
“did you ever hear of lord chesterfield’s letters to his son?”
“n-no—yes, sir, in school.”
“well, you get that book and read it.”
westy said nothing. to lose his precious hundred dollars seemed bad enough. to be sentenced to read lord chesterfield’s letters to his son was nothing less than inhuman.
