"I'm Hannibal," said the small figure. He was meditating flight;
he glanced over his shoulder toward the woods.

"No, you ain't. He's been dead a thousand years, more or less.
Try again," recommended the man.

"I'm Hannibal Wayne Hazard," said the boy. The man quitted his
chair.

"Well--I am glad to know you, Hannibal Wayne Hazard. I am Slocum
Price--Judge Slocum Price, sometime major-general of militia and
ex-member of congress, to mention a few of those honors my fellow
countrymen have thrust upon me." He made a sweeping gesture with
his two hands outspread and bowed ponderously.

The boy saw a man of sixty, whose gross and battered visage told
its own story. There was a sparse white frost about his ears;
and his eyes, pale blue and prominent, looked out from under
beetling brows. He wore a shabby plum-colored coat and tight,
drab breeches. About his fat neck was a black stock, with just a
suggestion of soiled linen showing above it. His figure was
corpulent and unwieldy.

The man saw a boy of perhaps ten, barefoot, and clothed in
homespun shirt and trousers. On his head was a ruinous hat much
too large for him, but which in some mysterious manner he
contrived to keep from quite engulfing his small features, which
were swollen and tear-stained. In his right hand he carried a
bundle, while his left clutched the brown barrel of a long rifle.