Steaming hot, the supper comes promptly at seven. It is followed, steaming hot, by unlimited whisky punch. Pipes are lighted, and, with glasses at easy hand, the three boys draw about the fire. The punch, the pipes, and the crackling log fire are very comfortable adjuncts on an October night.
“And now,” cries Crawford, who is full of life and interest, “now for the news and the proposition!”
McNairy nods owlish assent to the words of his volatile friend. He intends one day to be a judge, and, while quite as lively as Crawford, seizes on occasions such as this to practice his features in a formidable woolsack gravity.
“First,” observes Andy, soberly sipping his punch, “let me put a question: What is my standing in Rowan County?”
“You are the recognized authority,” cries Crawford, “on dog fighting, cockfighting, and horse racing.”
McNairy nods.
“Humph!” says Andy. Then, on the heels of a pause: “And what should you say were my chief accomplishments?”
Again Crawford takes it upon himself to reply.
“You ride, shoot, run, jump, wrestle, dance and make love beyond expression.”
McNairy the judicial nods.