It was a Saturday evening. Had the dial of the Court House clock been illuminated, it would have shown the hour to be half-past seven. On the corner, a gasolene lamp was burning at the top of a weather-stained post. In front of the Opera House an Uncle Tom's Cabin band was straining at the melancholy air, "Massa's In de Col', Col' Ground," played in circus tempo. Now and then was heard the scuffle of hurrying feet on the tar walk outside.
Nibs Morey and Jimmy Hulburt sat in silence for a space.
No one had ever been able—if, indeed, any one had sought—to fathom the friendship that for two years had been maintained unbroken between these two. Perhaps it was due to the counter effect of Hulburt's derision of Morey's abundant conceit, for had Nibs Morey been asked to cite an instance of Jimmy's championing him, he, positively, would have failed. It was the one's lack, or expressed lack, of confidence in the other, that evenly balanced the other's really splendid confidence in himself.
When first Nibs had expressed his intention of posting a challenge to Billy Shaw on the Bulletin Board in the Main Hall, Jimmy had sniffed and sneered derisively.
"What's the use making a Jack of yourself?" he asked.
"Who's going to?" Nibs replied, tartly.
"You are. He'll beat you by a rod," was the cool retort.
"Don't you believe it."
"Well, I do."
"You needn't."