The judge nodded to Hiram, who closed the door after him.
“Take off that wet coat–give me your hat, and sit here,” said the judge, pulling a chair around to the fire.
The visitor drew off his rubber garment.
“Thank you, sir,” said he. “My name is Morgan, and I’ve come over hell’s highway, as the man said, to get to Shelbyville tonight.”
“Not Curtis Morgan?” said Judge Maxwell, lifting his eyes in startled surprise, staying the stream of liquor that he was decanting into a glass.
“Yes. You’ve heard my name before tonight, I see,” the visitor said.
“Just so,” replied the judge, in his studious way. “Drink this, unless you have scruples?”
“It looks to me like a life-preserver to a drowning man,” said Morgan, with a glimmer of his every-day facetiousness. He drained the glass; the judge motioned for him to sit down. Morgan did so, and stretched his wet feet to the fire.
“I’ve got a story to tell you, Judge Maxwell,” said he, again casting his quick, almost fearful look around, “that will sound to you, maybe, like a wild-eyed dream. But I want to tell you right now, it ain’t no dream–not by a million miles! I wish it was,” he added, with a serious twist of the head.
“Go on,” said the judge.