“Oh, let the nigger fish—­he has powerful luck.  What’s he usin’, Sheriff; worms or minnies?”

“Worms,” said the sheriff shortly.

Presently the crowd drifted away in the direction of the tavern.  Hannibal meantime had gone down to the river.  He haunted its banks as though he expected to see his Uncle Bob appear any moment.  The judge and Mahaffy had mingled with the others in the hope of free drinks, but in this hope there lurked the germ of a bitter disappointment.  There was plenty of drinking, but they were not invited to join in this pleasing rite, and after a period of great mental anguish Mahaffy parted with the last stray coin in the pocket of his respectable black trousers, and while his flask was being filled the judge indulged in certain winsome gallantries with the fat landlady.

“La, Judge Price, how you do run on!” she said with a coquettish toss of her curls.

“That’s the charm of you, ma’am,” said the judge.  He leaned across the bar and, sinking his voice to a husky whisper, asked, “Would it be perfectly convenient for you to extend me a limited credit?”

“Now, Judge Price, you know a heap better than to ask me that!” she answered, shaking her head.

“No offense, ma’am,” said the judge, hiding his disappointment, and with Mahaffy he quitted the bar.

“Why don’t you marry the old girl?  You could drink yourself to death in six months,” said Mahaffy.  “That would be a speculation worth while—­and while you live you could fondle those curls!”

“Maybe I’ll be forced to it yet,” responded the judge with gloomy pessimism.

With the filling of Mahaffy’s flask the important event of the day was past, and both knew it was likely to retain its preeminence for a terrible and indefinite period; a thought that enriched their thirst as it increased their gravity while they were traversing the stretch of dusty road that lay between the cavern and the judge’s shanty.  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.