Flat on his back, the judge stared up at the wide
blue arch of the heavens and rehearsed those promises which in
the last twenty years he had made and broken times without
number. He planned no sweeping reforms, his system of morality
being little more than a series of graceful compromises with
himself. He must not get hopelessly in debt; he must not get
helplessly drunk. Dealing candidly with his own soul in the
silence, he presently came to the belief that this might be done
without special hardship. Then suddenly the rusted name-plate on
Hannibal's old rifle danced again before his burning eyes, and a
bitter sense of hurt and loss struck through him. He saw himself
as he was, a shabby outcast, a tavern hanger-on, the utter
travesty of all he should have been; he dropped his arm across
his face.
The first rift of light in the sky found the judge stirring; it
found him in his usual cheerful frame of mind. He disposed of
his toilet and breakfast with the greatest expedition.
"Will you stroll into town with me, Solomon?" he asked, when they
had eaten. Mahaffy shook his head, his air was still plainly
hostile. "Then let your prayers follow me, for I'm off!" said
the judge.
Ten minutes' walk brought him to the door of the city tavern,
where he found Mr. Pegloe directing the activities of a small
colored boy who was mopping out his bar. To him the judge made
known his needs.
"Goin' to locate, are you?" said Mr. Pegloe.
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