“Give it to my way farin’ frien’, Major, them’s my sentiments to a dot; bet yer life they are.”
“Judge Lynn,” said the major, “keep quiet; you’re drunk.”
“A’ right, Major,” replied the judge, hazily. “Heerd some’un shay speech wazn only silver-plated anyhow, an’ silence wazh golden. I know two or three legerdemain tricks, bet yer life I do. Gimme ‘nother drink.”
“Major Hampton,” said Hugh, when the judge had subsided, “your words have made a great impression upon me. Do you know that sometimes I am filled with a vague sense of mystery when listening to your impassioned words in behalf of the multitude? Your charities have also caused me to marvel. It matters not in what part of the country I travel, I find where your secret charities have blessed the poor and needy, and then—”
“That’s all right, Stanton, it is not I to whom thanks are due. There is a higher power that is responsible for every benevolent act of my life. I am but an instrument—a missionary—doing the work that has been assigned to me, and I am far from being satisfied with the results of my labor. It is growing late, and perhaps we had better go.”
In the meantime Judge Lynn had ceased his interruptions. He had fallen into a drunken stupor.
“Assist me, Stanton,” said the major, sorrowfully, “and we will let him rest here for the night.”
Soon Hugh and the major were walking thoughtfully homeward along the deserted streets beneath a myriad of twinkling stars, while Judge Lynn was snoring lustily in drunken stupor on a large, leather-covered lounge, muttering incoherently the while, “Bet yer life! Bet yer life!”