“Calkilate it is, though,” replied Bob sullenly.
“You calculate it is?” said the judge, fixing his eyes on him. “And why do you calculate that? Take a glass—Ptoly, a glass—and tell me, man, why should it be too late?”
“I ain’t thirsty, squire,” said Bob.
“Don’t talk to me of your thirst; rum’s not for thirst, but to strengthen the heart and nerves, to drive away the blue devils. And a good thing it is, taken in moderation.”
As he spoke he filled himself a glass, and drank half of it off. Bob shook his head.
“No rum for me, squire. I take no pleasure in it. I’ve something on my mind too heavy for rum to wash away.”
“And what is that, Bob? Come, let’s hear what you’ve got to say. Or, perhaps, you’d rather speak to me alone. It’s Sunday to-day, and no business ought to be done; but for once, and for you, we’ll make an exception.”
“I brought the gentleman with me on purpose to witness what I had to say,” answered Bob, taking a cigar out of a box that stood on the table. Although the judge had not asked him to take one, he very quietly offered him a light. Bob smoked a whiff or two, looked thoughtfully at the judge, and then threw the cigar through the open window.
“It don’t relish, squire; nothin’ does now.”
“Ah, Bob! if you’d leave off play and drink! They’re your ruin; worse than ague or fever.”