Carrington laughed.
“The clostest shooting rifle you ever sighted—eh?” he repeated. “Why, aren't you afraid of it?”
“No,” said Hannibal scornfully. “But she kicks you some if you don't hold her right.”
There was a rusty name-plate on the stock of the old sporting rifle; this had caught Carrington's eye.
“What's the name here? Oh, Turberville.”
The judge, a step or two in advance, wheeled in his tracks with a startling suddenness.
“What?” he faltered, and his face was ashen.
“Nothing, I was reading the name here; it is yours; sir, I suppose?” said Carrington.
The color crept slowly back into the judge's cheeks, but a tremulous hand stole up to his throat.
“No, sir—no; my name is Price—Slocum Price! Turberville—Turberville—” he muttered thickly, staring stupidly at Carrington.