“I'm satisfied,” said the judge softly. Then after a bit he cleared his throat and ventured another query:
“That old house of mine—I s'pose she's all burnt up by now?”
“Don't you ever believe it,” said the sergeant. “That there house of yourn 'pears to be purty nigh ez contrary and set in its ways ez whut you are. It won't burn up, no matter how good a chance you give it. Jest about the time Jeff here drug you out on that little balcony outside your window, the water works begun to work, and after that they had her under control in less'n no time. She must be about out by now.”
“Your bathroom's a total loss and the extension on that side is pretty badly scorched up, but the rest of the place, excusing damage by the water and the smoke, is hardly damaged,” added the younger Tilghman. “You'll be able to move back in, inside of a month, judge.”
“And in the meantime you're going to stay right here, Judge Priest, and make my house your home,” announced Mr. Tilghman, Senior. “It's mighty plain, but such as it is you're welcome to it, judge. We'll do our level best to make you comfortable. Only I'm afraid you'll miss the things you've been used to having round you.”
“Oh, I reckin not,” said Judge Priest. His glance travelled slowly from the crayon portrait at the foot of the bed to Jeff Poindexter's chocolate-coloured face and back again to the portrait. “I've got mighty near everything I need to make me happy.”
“What I meant was that maybe you'd be kind of lonesome away from your own house,” Mr. Tilghman said.
“No, I don't believe so,” answered the old man, smiling a little. “You see, I taken the cure for lonesomeness to-night. You mout call it the smoke cure.”