“And you seen the judge, Uncle Bob?” questioned Hannibal.

“Yes, I’ve seen the judge.  We was together fo’ part of a day.  Me and him gets on fine.”

“Where is he now, Uncle Bob?”

“I reckon he’s back at Belle Plain by this time.  You see we left him in Raleigh along after noon to ’tend tosome business he had on hand.  I never seen a gentleman of his weight so truly spry on his legs—­and all about you, Nevvy; while as to mind!  Sho—­why, words flowed out of him as naturally as water out of a branch.”

Of Hannibal’s relationship to the judge he said nothing.  He felt that was a secret to be revealed by the judge himself when he should see fit.

“Uncle Bob, who’m I going to live with now?” questioned Hannibal anxiously.

“That p’int’s already come up, Nevvy—­him and me’s decided that there won’t be no friction.  You-all will just go on living with him.”

“But what about you, Uncle Bob?” cried Hannibal, lifting a wistful little face to Yancy’s.

“Oh, me?—­well, you-all will go right on living with me.”

“And what will come of Mr. Mahaffy?”

“I reckon you-all will go right on living witli him, too.”

“Uncle Bob, you mean you reckon we are all going to live in one house?”

“I ’low it will have to be fixed that-a-ways,” agreed Yancy.

CHAPTER XXXIII

THE JUDGE RECEIVES A LETTER

After he had parted with Solomon Mahaffy the judge applied himself diligently to shaping that miracle-working document which he was preparing as an offset to whatever risk he ran in meeting Fentress.  As sanguine as he was sanguinary he confidently expected to survive the encounter, yet it was well to provide for a possible emergency—­had he not his grandson’s future to consider?  While thus occupied he saw the afternoon stage arrive and depart from before the City Tavern.

Half an hour later Mr. Wesley, the postmaster, came sauntering up the street.  In his hand he carried a letter.

“Howdy,” he drawled, from just beyond the judge’s open door.

The judge glanced up, his quill pen poised aloft.

“Good evening, sir; won’t you step inside and be seated?” he asked graciously.  His dealings with the United States mail service were of the most insignificant description, and in personally delivering a letter, if this was what had brought him there, he felt Mr. Wesley had reached the limit of official courtesy and despatch.

“Well, sir; it looks like you’d never told us more than two-thirds of the truth!” said the postmaster.  He surveyed the judge curiously.

“I am complimented by your opinion of my veracity,” responded that gentleman promptly.  “I consider two-thirds an enormously high per cent to have achieved.”

“There is something in that, too,” agreed Mr. Wesley.  “Who is Colonel Slocum Price Turberville?”