Montgomery uncovered his shock of red hair, while his bulk of bone and muscle actually trembled in the presence of the small but awesome figure confronting him.  He might have crushed the judge with a blow of his huge fist, but no possible provocation could have induced him to lay hands on Nellie’s powerful ally.

“That skunk Shrimplin says my old woman’s been here,” he faltered, “poisonin’ your mind agin me!” A sickly grin relaxed his heavy jaws.  “The Lord only knows what she expects of a man—­I dunno!  The more I try, the worse she gets; nothin’ satisfies her!”

His breath, reeking of whisky, reached the judge.

“This is all very well, Montgomery, but I have a word or two to say to you—­come into the house.”

He led his disreputable visitor into the library, turned up the gas, and intrenched himself on the hearth-rug with his back to the fire.  The handy-man had kept near the door leading into the hall.

“Come closer!” commanded the judge, and Montgomery, hat in hand, advanced a step.  “I wish to warn you, Montgomery, that if you persist in your present course, it is certain to bring its own consequences,” began the judge.

“Sure, boss!” Joe faltered abjectly.

“I understand from Nellie that you have practically deserted your family,” continued the judge.

“Ain’t she hateful?” cried Joe, shaking his great head.

“When she married you, she had a right to expect you would not turn out the scoundrel you are proving yourself.”

“Boss, that’s so,” agreed Montgomery.

“This won’t do!” said the judge briskly.  “Nellie says she doesn’t see you from one week’s end to another; that you have money and yet contribute nothing toward her support nor the support of your family.”

“I am willin’ to go home, Judge!” said Montgomery, fingering his cap with clumsy hands.  He took a step nearer the slight figure on the hearth-rug and dropped his voice to a husky half maudlin whisper.  “He won’t let me—­see—­I’m a nigger slave to him!  I know I got a wife—­I know I got a family, but he says—­no!  He says—­’Joe, you damned old sot, you’ll go home with a few drinks inside your freckled hide and begin to shoot off your mouth, and there’ll be hell to pay for all of us!’”

“He?  What are you saying—­who won’t let you go home?” demanded the judge.

“Andy Gilmore; he’s afraid my old woman will get it out of me.  I tell him I’m a married man but he says, ‘No, you old soak, you stay here!’”

“What has Andy Gilmore to do with whether you go home or not?” inquired the judge.

“It’s him and Marsh,” said the handy-man.  “They bully me till I’m that rattled—­”

“Marsh—­do you mean my son, Marshall?” interrupted the judge.

“Yes, boss—­”

“I don’t understand this!” said the judge after a moment of silence.  “Why should Mr. Gilmore or my son wish to keep you away from your wife?”