“Lewis Lake,” he said—sharply for him—“I don't permit even my best friends to discuss my judicial acts.”
“Oh, I didn't mean that, Billy,” Doctor Lake made haste to explain. “I wasn't thinking so much of what happened just now in the court yonder. I reckon old Press deserved it—he's been running hog-wild round this town and this county too long already. Let him get that temper of his roused and a few drinks in him and he is a regular mad dog. Nobody can deny that. Of course I hate it—and I know you do too—to see one of the old company—one of the boys who marched out of here with us in '61—going to the pen. That's only natural; but I'm not finding fault with your sending him there. What I was thinking of is that you're sending him over the road day after tomorrow.”
“What of that?” asked the judge.
“Why, day after tomorrow is the day we're starting for the annual reunion,” said Doctor Lake; “and, Billy, if Press goes on the noon train—which he probably will—he'll be traveling right along with the rest of us—for a part of the way. Only he'll get off at the Junction, and we—well, we'll be going on through, the rest of us will, to the reunion That's what I meant.”
“That's so!” said the judge regretfully—“that's so! I did forget all about the reunion startin' then—I plum' forgot it. I reckin it will be sort of awkward for all of us—and for Press in particular.” He paused, holding the unlighted and overflowing pipe in his hands absently, and then went on:
“Lewis, when a man holds an office such as mine is he has to do a lot of things he hates mightily to do. Now you take old Press Harper's case. I reckin there never was a braver soldier anywhere than Press was. Do you remember Brice's Crossroads?”
“Yes,” said the old doctor, his eyes suddenly afire. “Yes, Billy—and Vicksburg too.”
“Ah-hah!” went on the old judge—“and the second day's fight at Chickamauga, when we lost so many out of the regiment, and Press came back out of the last charge, draggin' little Gil Nicholas by the arms, and both of them purty nigh shot to pieces? Yes, suh; Press always was a fighter when there was any fightin' to do—and the fightin' was specially good in them days. The trouble with Press was he didn't quit fightin' when the rest of us did. Maybe it sort of got into his blood. It does do jest that sometimes, I judge.”
“Yes,” said Doctor Lake, “I suppose you're right; but old Press is in a fair way to be cured now. A man with his temper ought never to touch whisky anyhow.”
“You're right,” agreed the judge. “It's a dangerous thing, licker is—and a curse to some people. I'd like to have a dram right this minute. Lew, I wish mightily you'd come on and go home with me tonight and take supper. I'll send my nigger boy Jeff up to your house to tell your folks you won't be there until late, and you walk on out to my place with me. I feel sort of played out and lonesome—I do so. Come on now. We'll have a young chicken and a bait of hot waffles—I reckin that old nigger cook of mine does make the best waffles in the created world. After supper we'll set a spell together and talk over them old times when we were in the army—and maybe we can kind of forget some of the things that've come up later.”