“No, I ain’t running away.  I ain’t got no one to run away from,” said the boy chokingly.  He was showing signs of fatigue.  His head drooped and he met the judge’s glance with tired, sleepy eyes.  The latter looked at him and then said suddenly: 

“I think you’d better go to bed.”

“I reckon I had,” agreed Hannibal, slipping from his chair.

“Well, take my bed back of the quilt.  You’ll find a hoe there.  You can dig up the dirt under the shuck tick with it—­which helps astonishingly.  What would the world say if it could know that judge Slocum Price makes his bed with a hoe!  There’s Spartan hardihood!” but the boy, not knowing what was meant by Spartan hardihood, remained silent.  “Nearing threescore years and ten, the allotted span as set down by the Psalmist—­once man of fashion, soldier, statesman and lawgiver—­and makes his bed with a hoe!  What a history!” muttered the judge with weary melancholy, as one groping hand found the jug while the other found the glass.  There was a pause, while he profited by this fortunate chance.  “Well, take the bed,” he resumed hospitably.

“I can sleep most anywhere.  I ain’t no ways particular,” said Hannibal.

“I say, take the bed!” commanded the judge sternly.  And Hannibal quickly retired behind the quilt.  “Do you find it comfortable?” the judge asked, when the rustling of the shuck tick informed him that the child had lain down.

“Yes, sir,” said the boy.

“Have you said your prayers?” inquired the judge:.

“No, sir.  I ain’t said ’em yet.”

“Well, say them now.  Religion is as becoming in the young as it is respectable in the aged.  I’ll not disturb you to-night, for it is God’s will that I should stay up and get very drunk.”

CHAPTER X

BOON COMPANIONS

Some time later the judge was aware of a step on the path beyond his door, and glancing up, saw the tall figure of a man pause on his threshold.  A whispered curse slipped from between his lips.  Aloud he said: 

“Is that you, Mr. Mahaffy?” He got no reply, but the tall figure, propelled by very long legs, stalked into the shanty and a pair of keen, restless eyes deeply set under a high, bald head were bent curiously upon him.

“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.