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