“Didn't write me why you came home,” said the Honourable Hilary, as his son washed his hands at the spigot.
“Didn't I? Well, the truth was I wanted to see you again, Judge.”
His father grunted, not with absolute displeasure, but suspiciously.
“Blodgett? Have you heard about that? Who told you?”
“Never mind. You didn't. Nothing in your letter about it.”
“It wasn't worth mentioning,” replied Austen. “Tyner and the boys liked it pretty well, but I didn't think you'd be interested. It was a local affair.”
“Not interested! Not worth mentioning!” exclaimed the Honourable Hilary, outraged to discover that his son was modestly deprecating an achievement instead of defending a crime. “Godfrey! murder ain't worth mentioning, I presume.”
“Not when it isn't successful,” said Austen. “If Blodgett had succeeded, I guess you'd have heard of it before you did.”
“Do you mean to say this Blodgett tried to kill you?” demanded the Honourable Hilary.
“Yes,” said his son, “and I've never understood why he didn't. He's a good deal better shot than I am.”
The Honourable Hilary grunted, and sat down on a bucket and carefully prepared a piece of Honey Dew. He was surprised and agitated.
“Then why are you a fugitive from justice if you were acting in self-defence?” he inquired.
“Well, you see there were no witnesses, except a Mexican of Blodgett's, and Blodgett runs the Pepper County machine for the railroad out there. I'd been wanting to come East and have a look at you for some time, and I thought I might as well come now.”
“How did this--this affair start?” asked Mr. Vane.
“Blodgett was driving in some of Tyner's calves, and I caught him. I told him what I thought of him, and he shot at me through his pocket. That was all.”
“I was lucky enough to hit him first,” said Austen.
Extraordinary as it may seem, the Honourable Hilary experienced a sense of pride.
It was Euphrasia who took matters in her own hands and killed the fatted calf, and the meal to which they presently sat down was very different from the frugal suppers Mr. Vane usually had. But he made no comment. It is perhaps not too much to say that he would have been distinctly disappointed had it been otherwise. There was Austen's favourite pie, and Austen's favourite cake, all inherited from the Austens, who had thought more of the fleshpots than people should. And the prodigal did full justice to the occasion.