“Can't you tell me about Mr. Yancy?”
“No, sir; I don't know exactly where he is—”
“But how did you get here?” persisted Carrington.
Suddenly Mahaffy turned on him.
“Don't you see he's with us?” he said truculently.
“Well, my dear sir, I certainly intended no offense!” rejoined Carrington rather hotly.
Mahaffy was plainly disturbed, the debased currency of his affection was in circulation where Hannibal was concerned, and he eyed the river-man askance. He was prepared to give him the lie should he set up any claim to the boy.
The judge plodded forward, his shoulders drooped, and his head bowed. For once silence had fixed its seal upon his lips, no inspiring speech fell from them. He had been suddenly swept back into a past he had striven these twenty years and more to forget, and his memories shaped themselves fantastically. Surely if ever a man had quitted the world that knew him, he was that man! He had died and yet he lived—lived horribly, without soul or heart, the empty shell of a man.
A turn in the road brought them within sight of Boggs' racetrack, a wide level meadow. The judge paused irresolutely, and turned his bleared face on his friend.
“We'll stop here, Solomon,” he said rather wearily, for the spirit of boast and jest was quite gone out of him. He glanced toward Carrington. “Are you a resident of these parts, sir?” he asked.