When they had settled themselves
in their chairs before the door, Mahaffy, who was notably jealous
of his privileges, drew the cork from the flask and took the
first pull at its contents. The judge counted the swallows as
registered by that useful portion of Mahaffy's anatomy known as
his Adam's apple. After a breathless interval, Mahaffy detached
himself from the flask and civilly passing the cuff of his coat
about its neck, handed it over to the judge. In the unbroken
silence that succeeded the flask passed swiftly from hand to
hand, at length Mahaffy held it up to the light. It was
two-thirds empty, and a sigh stole from between his thin lips.
The judge reached out a tremulous hand. He was only too familiar
with his friend's distressing peculiarities.
"Not yet!" he begged thickly.
"Why not?" demanded Mahaffy fiercely. "Is it your liquor or
mine?" He quitted his chair end stalked to the well where he
filled the flask with water. Infinitely disgusted, the judge
watched the sacrilege. Mahaffy resumed his chair and again the
flask went its rounds.
"It ain't so bad," said the judge after a time, but with a
noticeable lack of enthusiasm.
"Were you in shape to put anything better than water into it, Mr.
Price?" The judge winced. He always winced at that "Mr."
"Well, I wouldn't serve myself such a trick as that," he said
with decision. "When I take liquor, it's one thing; and when I
want water, it's another."
"It is, indeed," agreed Mahaffy.
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