"About—about—about—eh, about what month, do you remember, eh?" squeaked out the hatchet-faced interrogation point through the nose, as he planted himself before the little Judge.
"About the last cleaning up," said the Judge cheerfully.
"That was about—about—" and the hatchet-faced man with the nasal twang and sharp nose began again to count on his fingers—"about four, five, six, seven months ago?"
"Yes, yes," said the good-natured, unsuspicious, important little Judge, "about six, seven months ago, I reckon." And then he, smiling innocently, fell in between two great bearded giants, as a sort of ham-sandwich filling, to take a drink at the bar.
"Ompossible!" said the first top to the hatchet-face.
"Ask him."
The hatchet-face and sharp-nose looked towards the little fat Judge wedged in between the giants. The top spun up to the little Judge, wedged his head in between the giants' shoulders, and asked a question.
The Judge shook his head, and then wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, said half sadly, "No, I am not. No, I am sorry to say, I am not. That is a happiness still in store. No, I am not a family man. Never was married in my life; but whatever may transpire in this glorious climate of Californy—"
The top had its answer, and spun back to its place without waiting for the last of the speech.
The two men talked together again. Then they appealed to an old man who sat mute and sullen back on the bench by the bull-dog.