He haunted its banks as though he expected to see his Uncle Bob appear any moment.

The judge and Mahaffy had mingled with the others in the hope of free drinks, but in this hope there lurked the germ of a bitter disappointment.

There was plenty of drinking, but they were not invited to join in this pleasing rite, and after a period of great mental anguish Mahaffy parted with the last stray coin in the pocket of his respectable black trousers, and while his flask was being filled the judge indulged in certain winsome gallantries with the fat landlady.
"La, Judge Price, how you do run on!" she said with a coquettish toss of her curls.
"That's the charm of you, ma'am," said the judge.

He leaned across the bar and, sinking his voice to a husky whisper, asked, "Would it be perfectly convenient for you to extend me a limited credit ?" "Now, Judge Price, you know a heap better than to ask me that!" she answered, shaking her head.
"No offense, ma'am," said the judge, hiding his disappointment, and with Mahaffy he quitted the bar.
"Why don't you marry the old girl?
You could drink yourself to death in six months," said Mahaffy.

"That would be a speculation worth while--and while you live you could fondle those curls!" "Maybe I'll be forced to it yet," responded the judge with gloomy pessimism.
With the filling of Mahaffy's flask the important event of the day was past, and both knew it was likely to retain its preeminence for a terrible and indefinite period; a thought that enriched their thirst as it increased their gravity while they were traversing the stretch of dusty road that lay between the cavern and the judge's shanty.