“Oh, be reasonable, Solomon. You'd gone down to the steamboat landing,” said the judge plaintively. By way of answer, Mahaffy shot him a contemptuous glance. “Take a chair—do, Solomon!” entreated the judge.
“I don't force my society on any man, Mr. Price,” said Mahaffy, with austere hostility of tone. The judge winced at the “Mr.” That registered the extreme of Mahaffy's disfavor.
“You feel bitter about this, Solomon?” he said.
“I do,” said Mahaffy, in a tone of utter finality.
“You'll feel better with three fingers of this trickling through your system,” observed the judge, pushing a glass toward him.
“When did I ever sneak a jug into my shanty?” asked Mahaffy sternly, evidently conscious of entire rectitude in this matter.
“I deplore your choice of words, Solomon,” said the judge. “You know damn well that if you'd been here I couldn't have got past your place with that jug! But let's deal with conditions. Here's the jug, with some liquor left in it—here's a glass. Now what more do you want?”
“Have I ever been caught like this?” demanded Mahaffy.
“No, you've invariably manifested the honorable disabilities of a gentleman. But don't set it all down to virtue. Maybe you haven't had the opportunity, maybe the temptation never came and found you weak and thirsty. Put away your sinful pride, Solomon—a sot like you has no business with the little niceties of selfrespect.”
“Do I drink alone?” insisted Mahaffy doggedly.