The place of Justice in the little town of Manzanita was a low, square, cloth-and-papered room, bare save for the Judge’s unpainted pine desk and armchair; the two other chairs, wooden-seated and worn, that stood just in front of the desk, and were reserved at trials for the constable and his prisoner; the four long benches directly behind these; and the squat, round-barreled stove which, though it was midsummer in the little Northern California town, still held its place in the centre of the room, its four legs spraddled out as if it were determined to defy removal from its shallow sawdust box. There was but one spot of brightness in the whole dingy place. Back of the Judge’s desk, draped against the fly-specked wall in careful folds, gleamed the red, white and blue of the Flag.