"I take it I'm intruding," the new-comer said sourly.
"Why should you think that, Solomon Mahaffy? When has my door
been closed on you?" the judge asked, but there was a guilty
deepening of the flush on his face. Mr. Mahaffy glanced at the
jug, at the half-emptied glass within convenient reach of the
judge's hand, lastly at the judge himself, on whose flame-colored
visage his eyes rested longest.
"I've heard said there was honor among thieves," he remarked.
"I know of no one better fitted to offer an opinion on so
delicate a point than just yourself, Mahaffy," said the judge,
with a thick little ripple of laughter.
But Solomon Mahaffy's long face did not relax in its set
expression.
"I saw your light," he explained, "but you seem to be raising
first-rate hell all by yourself."
"Oh, be reasonable, Solomon. You'd gone down to the steamboat
landing," said the judge plaintively. By way of answer, Mahaffy
shot him a contemptuous glance. "Take a chair--do, Solomon!"
entreated the judge.
"I don't force my society on any man, Mr. Price," said Mahaffy,
with austere hostility of tone. The judge winced at the "Mr."
That registered the extreme of Mahaffy's disfavor.
"You feel bitter about this, Solomon?" he said.
"I do," said Mahaffy, in a tone of utter finality.
"You'll feel better with three fingers of this trickling through
your system," observed the judge, pushing a glass toward him.
"When did I ever sneak a jug into my shanty?" asked Mahaffy
sternly, evidently conscious of entire rectitude in this matter.
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