"You shall
be my guest for the night. They're a pack of thieves at the
tavern," he lowered his voice. "I know 'em, for they've plucked
me!" To make sure of his prey, he rested a fat hand on the boy's
shoulder and drew him gently but firmly into the shanty. As they
crossed the threshold he kicked the door shut, then with flint
and steel he made a light, and presently a candle was sputtering
in his hands. He fitted it into the neck of a tall bottle, and
as the light flared up the boy glanced about him.
The interior was mean enough, with its rough walls, dirt floor
and black, cavernous fireplace. A rude clapboard table did duty
as a desk, a fact made plain by a horn ink-well, a notary's seal,
and a rack with a half-dozen quill pens. Above the desk was a
shelf of books in worn calf bindings, and before it a rickety
chair. A shakedown bed in one corner of the room was tastefully
screened from the public gaze by a tattered quilt.
"Boy, don't be afraid. Look on me as a friend," urged the judge,
who towered above him in the dim candle-light. "Here's comfort
without ostentation. Don't tell me you prefer the tavern, with
its corrupt associations!" Hannibal was silent, and the judge,
after a brief moment of irresolution, threw open the door. Then
he bent toward the small stranger, bringing his face close to the
child's, while his thick lips wreathed themselves in a smile
ingratiatingly genial. "You can't look me squarely in the eye
and say you prefer the tavern to these scholarly surroundings?"
he said banteringly.
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