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tapped his great head. "An' yet," he added justly, "if I'd ever a-learnt to read an' write I might be jest as bad as them."

"I reckon everybody'll agree you've got the beatenest ricollection in this whole county," acknowledged Sandage.

"Well, don't you worry no more about it," advised Jones. "I'll come down to the county court an' fix it up for ye." He waved a pudgy hand at the overseer. "Jest you lay low."

"I'll be much obliged," said Sandage, greatly relieved.

The three men walked out of the office and climbed down the steps into the intense sunshine again. As they moved toward the courthouse a dribble of hillmen came up to the magnate to ask directions about his farms, about his saw mills, about his cattle. Mr. Jones gave precise directions to one and all. He knew instantly the whole situation and the solution necessary. He was like one of those expert chess players who sit blindfolded and play a half-dozen games simultaneously. And as he performed this mental feat he waddled along as if he really had his mind on something else. Finally he asked:

"Teeftaller—Teeftaller— Didn't Linsey Teeftaller marry a Coltrane, Jim?"

"Yeh," nodded the politician, surprised at this turn.

"An' didn't she die crazy on the pore farm, or something of the sort?"

"Yeh."

"Uh-huh. . ." Mr. Jones nodded his massive head and played with a small gold nugget, a watch charm on a gold chain which swung around his abdomen. "Yeh, ol' Judge Coltrane's daughter, she married when she was jest a gal, didn't she—run away and married and then went crazy?"

"I reckon you ricolleck ever'thing!"

"Oh"—the fat man spread his hands—"I jest happened to. . ." He pulled thoughtfully at his chin and glanced out of the corner of his black eyes at Abner.

At that moment the raucous voice of the bailiff boomed