"You, of course," Angus admitted.
"Yes, I," said the judge. "And I tell you who are on the threshold of manhood to let liquor alone; not because there is nothing in it, as you say in your ignorance, but because there are most things—or the semblance of most things—in it that the heart of man desires. Remember not to prove these things. That's all I have to say on the subject. And now clear out, for I am busy."
But when Angus had gone the judge did not appear to be very busy. He filled a disreputable old pipe with a somewhat shaky hand, and lighting it passed into a period of reflection. At the end of it he put on his hat and proceeded up the street to Mr. Braden's office.
Mr. Braden, spick and span and freshly shaven, enjoying a very good cigar, looked with surprise and some distaste at the rumpled, unpressed clothes, unshaven cheeks and untidy hair of the old lawyer. He had little or no use for him.
"And what is it this morning, judge?" he asked.
"Mackay estate," said the judge.
Mr. Braden's eyes closed a little.
"Yes, I know you drew Mackay's will," he admitted, "but Crosby and Parks do all my business, and of course—"
"Wrong foot," said the judge, "I'm not asking for any of your business, Braden. Angus Mackay tells me you were speaking of renting the ranch, and he wanted to know if you had the power to do it."
"Of course I have," Mr. Braden asserted. "The boy—"