CHAPTER X. BOON COMPANIONS
Some time later the judge was aware of a step on the path beyond his door, and glancing up, saw the tall figure of a man pause on his threshold. A whispered curse slipped from between his lips. Aloud he said:
“Is that you, Mr. Mahaffy?” He got no reply, but the tall figure, propelled by very long legs, stalked into the shanty and a pair of keen, restless eyes deeply set under a high, bald head were bent curiously upon him.
“I take it I'm intruding,” the new-comer said sourly.
“Why should you think that, Solomon Mahaffy? When has my door been closed on you?” the judge asked, but there was a guilty deepening of the flush on his face. Mr. Mahaffy glanced at the jug, at the half-emptied glass within convenient reach of the judge's hand, lastly at the judge himself, on whose flame-colored visage his eyes rested longest.
“I've heard said there was honor among thieves,” he remarked.
“I know of no one better fitted to offer an opinion on so delicate a point than just yourself, Mahaffy,” said the judge, with a thick little ripple of laughter.
But Solomon Mahaffy's long face did not relax in its set expression.
“I saw your light,” he explained, “but you seem to be raising first-rate hell all by yourself.”