Briscoe glanced at them, and raised a warning finger to his daughter, and
they went tiptoeing into the house, where the judge dropped heavily upon a
sofa with an asthmatic sigh; he was worn and tired. Minnie stood before
him with a look of pale inquiry, and he shook his head.
"No use to tell _them_; but I can't see any hope," he answered her, biting
nervously at the end of a cigar. "I expect you better bring me some coffee
in here; I couldn't take another step to save me. I'm too old to tear
around the country horseback before breakfast, like I have to-day."
"Did you send her telegram?" Minnie asked, as he drank the coffee she
brought him. She had interpreted "coffee" liberally, and, with the
assistance of Mildy Upton (whose subdued nose was frankly red and who shed
tears on the raspberries), had prepared an appetizing table at his elbow.
"Yes," responded the judge, "and I'm glad she sent it. I talked the other
way yesterday, what little I said--it isn't any of our business--but I
don't think any too much of those people, somehow. She thinks she belongs
with Fisbee, and I guess she's right. That young fellow must have got
along with her pretty well, and I'm afraid when she gives up she'll be
pretty bad over it; but I guess we all will. It's terribly sudden,
somehow, though it's only what everybody half expected would come; only we
thought it would come from over yonder.
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