“You don’t belong in these parts, do you?” asked the judge, when he had completed his scrutiny.

“No, sir,” answered the boy.  He glanced off down the road, where lights were visible among the trees.  “What town is that?” he added.

“Pleasantville—­which is a lie—­but I am neither sufficiently drunk nor sufficiently sober to cope with the possibilities your question offers.  It is a task one should approach only after extraordinary preparation,” and the sometime major-general of militia grinned benevolently.

“It’s a town, ain’t it?” asked Hannibal doubtfully.  He scarcely understood this large, smiling gentleman who was so civilly given to speech with him, yet strangely enough he was not afraid of him, and his whole soul craved human companionship.

“It’s got a name—­but you’ll excuse me, I’d much prefer not to tell you how I regard it—­you’re too young to hear.  But stop a bit—­have you so much as fifty cents about you?” and the judge’s eyes narrowed to a slit above their folds of puffy flesh.  Hannibal, keeping his glance fixed on the man’s face, fell back a step.  “I can’t let you go if you are penniless—­I can’t do that!” cried the judge, with sudden vehemence.  “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.

“I reckon I’ll be glad to stop,” answered Hannibal.  The judge clapped him piayfully on the back.

“Such confidence is inspiring!  Make yourself perfectly at home.  Are you hungry?”